


10-1: Long Tran Running

by jcrowquill



Series: Spare the Angels [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Archangel Castiel, M/M, alternate season 10, bit of first time exploration, casfic, dealing with heaven, demon/angel lore, finding Mrs. Tran, relationship power struggles, trying to fix the SPN mythology after S9 inconsistencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrowquill/pseuds/jcrowquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before they take on the task of freeing (or killing) the angels trapped in Hell, the Winchesters owe it to Kevin to find out what really happened to his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows [The Opposite of Fall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1087117) and will not make as much sense without it as the situations and character states are not canon. I would recommend reading the previous fics in this series, though you can probably skip [Stretch and Glide](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1129771), as it is pretty much just PWP.

Alison Wild is twenty one and she likes how her butt looks in these jeans.  Coupled with adorable boots and a cute, snug t-shirt, she feels pretty confident about her chances of snagging a cutie at the bar; it's going to be a good night.

She transfers her ID and a wad of small bills from her purse to her pocket; she hates having things to keep track of. Giving herself one last look in the mirror and practicing a flirtatious smile, she pulls on her coat and pats down the pockets to make sure that she has her keys and phone.

As she goes to leave, she sees that someone has slid a tiny paper booklet under the dorm door along with an unsolicited Chinese food menu.  She smirks derisively as she realizes that she has received a [Chick Tract](http://www.chick.com/default.asp).

She's heard of them - the pocket-sized  combination comic and born-again religious propaganda - but she's never seen one before.  Curious, she flips through the poorly drawn little comic about the dangers of premarital sex, laughing a little to herself.  The rhetoric is completely outdated and grandiose.  She can recognize the sincerity of the creator (and she can almost feel the righteous conviction of whoever slipped it under her door), but she can't take it seriously.  

She pins it to her bulletin board, does one last check on keys, ID, etc, and heads out.  The halls are quiet as she makes her way to the elevator, though she can hear televisions and stereos in the rooms. Classes don't start till Tuesday and the atmosphere is about as carefree as it was going to get.

The parking lot is icy as she walks to her car.  There have been a number of gruesome happenings on and around campus lately, which makes her transfer her keys to her hand.  She carefully slips the keys between her fingers in preparation for whatever could could be lurking in the dark and keeps a wary eye on the shadow. Nothing exciting happens though, to her relief.  She unlocks her car with a press of a button and climbs in, shivering at the cold leather of the seat that seems to practically glow through her jeans to freeze the backs of her thighs.

The bar, fortunately, is warmer.  She nods to a few acquaintances from her major and her dorm building, but she doesn't see any friends.  What she does see is that everyone is already a bit hazy and the atmosphere is pleasantly inebriated even though it's only ten.

_Ten, wow, where did the day go._

A few drinks later and she's sharing in the cheerful, hazily buzzed good mood.  She smiles and dances with other girls, gets alternately annoyed and turned on when guys try to grind on her on the dance floor.  The jeans were a good choice.  The lights are sparkly and bright colored in time with the music, sometimes strobing almost too brightly. A guy moves up against her and gives her a playful smile.  They dance for a few minutes, communicating in that wordless way that half-drunk strangers did on a crowded dance floor.  He's cute and she's interested; it's that kind of night. He's wearing a slim-fitting t-shirt that has the name of some band she hasn't heard of and his hair and teeth are perfect; the way he moves when he dances, she's pretty sure he's got slick moves in bed.

The music sounds strange though, and there is a weird, warbling undercurrent that only she seems to hear.  Like a lot of voices whispering, almost like static.

The boy at her back slides his arm around her waist and brings his hand to rest on her abdomen, snuggling her back against him as they dance.  He hasn't said a thing yet and neither has she.  But at the moment, his warm body at her back isn't holding her attention.

The voices are.  It's strange because it sounds like a lot of voices, but she intuitively knows that it's only one thing talking to her. It's very compelling, though she would have had a hard time explaining it to anyone else.  It's strangely beautiful and she's buzzed enough not to be too suspicious.

"Yes," she breathes, though it isn't audible over the thumping bass of the music.

The flash is quick and bright and somehow blends in with the other dance floor lights.  Through the noise and the blue of alcohol, no one really thinks about it for more than the second that it lasts.

Alison stills, seeming to have forgotten what she was doing.  She turns and looks at the young man behind her, making full, beautiful eye contact that sends his heart racing.

He suddenly forgets all of the smooth conversation starters that he'd been dreaming up for the last ten minutes and resorts to the pick-up lines that have been hard-coded into his head since he was twelve.

"Did it hurt?"

"What?" she asks.

"W-When you fell from heaven."

"Yes, actually," she replies, looking slightly perplexed, "How did you know?"

 

__________________________

 

It's a gray mid-January in Kansas. The polar cold has lifted briefly, reducing the heavy snow down to a sunken layer of dirty white. A tremor deep beneath the earth shudders through, raining a rattling shower of twigs, ice crystals and dead leaves down on the dingy snow.

One of the angels trapped in Hell is close to them, where the realms almost touch. There was a reason why the Men of Letters had chosen this exact place to build their safe haven; the power of the tap lines intersecting - heaven, earth, hell, and purgatory - was essential to the impenetrable cloaking on the bunker.

It's also the reason why there's one earth-shaking rumble almost every day, even though much of the world seems quiet.

When the thrill of movement has subsided, the cold, strangely humid air is still and quiet again.

The silence is broken several minutes later by the well-maintained grumble of the impala's engine as she comes up the drive.  Dean is returning from a supply run in town with Kevin; they are leaving again soon on what they hope will be the final step in recovering Mrs. Tran.

Knowing that no one does any kind of shopping while he's away, Dean has bought several bulk bundles of canned and dry goods in addition to the more conventional perishable grocery items.  He figures that between this last run and the cumulative purchasing he's done for the last week, the entirety of Team Free Will could probably eat for a month and a half, even if they were scraping by on Bisquick and ramen for a few days.

He doesn't intend to be gone that long this time, but nonetheless he can barely see out the rear window over the mountain of carefully stacked brown paper grocery bags and bulk toilet paper.  Horde that stuff and treat it like gold.  Right.

Kevin, beside him in the passenger seat, is in a fairly decent mood.  Since his trek through heaven the month before, his moods have been erratic; yesterday he had sought out Gadreel for an accusatory row before mellowing under Dorothy's care.  This morning he had started quiet, then turned more toward serene.  

When he'd asked Castiel about it, the angel had just told him that not everyone could handle being tossed between heaven and earth the way that he and Sam could; further, Kevin has seen things that the mortal mind is not equipped to comprehend - the true form of an archangel and God's observatory - and those images are likely causing some conflict in his brain. He couldn't assure him that it would pass.

Dean has decided to take this opportunity to give the prophet some news that he knows he won't take well.

As he slips the key from the ignition, he says, "So, ah, you wanna help me unload?  Then Sam and I are gonna pack up and head out to go get your mom."

Despite that Dean is being as casual as possible, Kevin immediately picks up on what he's going to try to sugar coat in a minute.

"I'm coming too, Dean.  Don't even try to tell me I'm not."

Dean sighs.  Well, direct is better anyway.  His father always said so, anyway.  

"No, you're gonna have to sit this one out.  It's too dangerous."

"I don't care, this is my mom!"

"And we're going to get her, Kev," he says firmly, "But you're not coming."

"Why?" The younger man challenges, "Give me an actual good reason."

Dean actually has a number of good reasons.  

The first and most important is not one that he can tell Kevin: they don't know what his mother will be when they find her.  Having been on the wrong side of several possessed loved ones, Dean knows the horror of seeing them compromised. He also knows how much it hurts to hear demons exploiting insecurities by saying hateful things in their voices.  The last thing he needs with all of Kevin's other problems is for him to hear his mother screaming that she never wanted him or would have traded his father for him, particularly if she was also trying to tear his throat out at the same time.

She could also be too physically or mentally damaged to survive.  If they have to kill her, he doesn't want Kevin there.

The second reason has to do with Castiel and his new duty as an archangel.  As a prophet, he is the celestial creature's first priority.  With Dean's newfound protectiveness over his angel following the near miss several weeks before, he needs Cas's number one priority to be Cas.

There was also the simple fact that Kevin's instability could prove to be dangerous.  

None of these are things he wants to say.

"Y'know, I'm gonna be straight with you-"

"Which means you're gonna lie 'for my own good-'"

"-and I'm gonna say that you're a liability.  Your mom's your weak spot and the last thing we need is one of them trying to bargain with you for her."

"You think I'd do that?"

"Look, I would have.  I know about moms."

Kevin looks at him angrily, "You barely remember your mom.  You don't know a damn thing."

Dean presses his lips together, his nostrils flaring slightly.  The younger man immediately regrets having said it, but it's not something that he can easily take back.  Instead he looks straight ahead, avoiding his friend’s angry, manfully wounded expression.

"Dean," he says weakly, "I can't just stay here."

"Well," the hunter says, shoving his keys into his pocket and switching off the headlights, "You're gonna.  Now help me unload the damn car."

The _you little shit_ on the end was very fiercely implied as he opened the door and climbed out.

Angry again, Kevin slams the opposite door because he knows that it pisses Dean off when anyone plays rough with the Impala.

"Do it yourself," Kevin spits as he stalks into the bunker.

So Dean does.  He makes several trips from the car to the kitchen, mentally eviscerating Kevin the whole way.  

_He's just a dumb kid, and you're right to try to keep him out of trouble.  Yeah, these damn brainiac kids think they know about shit.  How many times does he want to fucking get killed?_

"You're in a bad mood," Sam comments as he walks into the kitchen.  He's just in time to watch as Dean angrily tosses a shrink-wrapped block of 32 boxes of off-brand macaroni and cheese onto the counter.

"Yeah, well.  Kevin's a bitch."

His brother's eyebrows flick up, "Oh-kaaay.  I'm guessing he wasn't too happy bout being left home?"

"Understatement," Dean agrees, forcing himself to take a bottle of cola from the fridge rather than a beer.  

He slams the door irritably and unscrews the cap.  He takes a long drink, even though it’s too cold and the carbonation burns his throat almost as much as whiskey would.  Satisfied with his sugar intake, he burps discreetly and rubs the cuff of his shirt against his nose before looking back to Sam expectantly.

"Well, y'know, cool.  It's been awhile since it was just the two of us on a hunt," Sam says placatingly, leaning over to pull a bottle of Vitamin Water out of the wrapped 24 pack.  As usual, he makes a mess of the plastic.

"I was thinking we should bring Gadreel."

Sam nearly fumbles the bottle, "What? No."

"He's a good shot, Sam, and he wants to come."

"He's really green, Dean.  We can't just bring him into a demon nest on his first go.”

Dean leans back against the counter and scrutinizes him, eyebrows raised, “Hey man, I recommended we bring him on that routine salt and burn in Ashtabula and you said no.  You gotta let him off the leash sometime.”

Sam groans, passing the plastic bottle between his heads and screwing up his features, “Why _this_ time?”

“Because Crowley’s a freaking demon magnet, Kevin’s in meltdown, and the girls are on angel surveillance.”

“What about Cas?”

“Cas is coming.”

“If we’ve got an archangel why do we need him?  The three of us should be more than enough,” Sam protests uncapping and then recapping his drink.

While he has watched Gadreel become a reasonably proficient shooter and a passable fighter over the last few weeks, he doesn’t feel that his field-testing should be a trial by fire involving an unknown number of demons.  He is frustrated by Dean’s insistence and even more by his own hesitance - he knows the life they lead and he knows that he is selfish for trying to keep something for himself.  He knows that Dean has watched Cas die over and over, but still lets the angel fight alongside them.  All the same, he's not ready to risk Gadreel yet.

"Come on, Dean," Sam tries again, "He doesn't need to come."

"He asked me if he could," Dean replies, though he adds a little awkwardly, "And I said okay."

Sam smirks, "He would do that, wouldn't he."

"Guess so.  I suppose you should have a word with him if he's not going.  I've about had my fill of kicking people out of the clubhouse for today," Dean tells him unsympathetically.

His brother stares him down, angry with him for telling Gadreel he could come.  He would have much preferred that Dean be the bad guy. Instead of grousing, though, then smiles irritatingly and says brightly, "Well. Huh.  I guess it's like a double date then, huh."

Dean groans, "Don't even."

 

\-------------------  
  
Daylight finds Abbadon just as horrifying as darkness had.  Even one-handed and tethered precariously to her damaged body, she is immortal and wicked.  There is an unnatural crook to her spine and an answering twist in her soul; one is new, one isn’t.  Flickers of her true visage occasionally come through unexpectedly.

She can't die, but it doesn't mean that she can't be made to suffer.  Pain comes and goes, but it doesn’t slow her down.  With all but a few of her demonic entourage locked in Hell, she has turned more subversive in her methods.

She doesn't know why the earth is shaking, but she knows that it's bad in a cosmic sense.  When things are bad in a cosmic sense, it usually means that the Winchesters are or will become involved.

The redheaded demon is waiting for them to expose themselves.  She wants more than to simply kill them; she intends to tear them apart and drag their souls back to Hell the moment that the door has been reopened.  

She applies lipstick evenly to mask her pale bloodless lips.  Her skin is dead white, which makes her eyes all the more striking when they flash a murderous black.  She is an undead creature, a beautiful woman who flickers demonic like a lamp with bad wiring.  

Abaddon is a terrifying creature.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

The road stretches out seemingly interminably ahead of them.  While he’d been worried that the ride would be awkward, Dean is surprised to find that the commute is little different despite the former angel in the back seat.

Sam, shotgun, is about as chatty as ever.  This means that he fluctuates wildly between staring out to window in silence and talking incessantly about whatever has caught his interest.  It might be something outside, it might be something he read on his phone, or it could be a new thought on their destination.  Gadreel, comfortably settled in the back, is reading from a ratty hardcover titled _The Ethics and Social Structures of Form-Shifting Creatures_ that he’d unearthed in the basement. Numerous self-bound, typed manuscripts had been tucked away for years and the blond is determined to read them all.

Cas had complained about being crowded in the Impala with his newly broadened wingspan, but Dean is reasonably certain that his archangel feels more crowded by Gadreel than anything.  While their seraphic companion has abandoned them for the moment, Dean fully expects to hear the rustle of feathers and see him in the back seat at some point before they reach the hotel for the night.

Sam’s been quiet for a half hour now, which likely means that he has either zoned out or is deeply engrossed in contemplation of organic farming or something.  While Dean is used to nearly endless driving, it is as natural as breathing and just about as interesting.  Boredom is strarting to overtake him and he isn't ready yet to resort to word games or other car trip "spot the whatever" staples.

He breaks the silence by knocking his open palm against the steering well, “Right. So I've got a question.  I’m curious… this whole Garden deal seems at odds with the crap we’ve been hearing from angels and demons for the last ten years.”

Gadreel looks up from his book, meeting Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror, “In what way?”

“Well, I was always under the impression that it had been more of an evolution thing, rather than a Genesis thing,” Dean explains, “Y’know, with the comments about mudmonkeys and mankind crawling out of the ooze.”

Gadreel nods thoughtfully, trying to think of how to reply in human terms.

“The two concepts aren’t mutually exclusive,” he says quietly, running his fingertip between two pages as looks out the window, “God’s garden was a tangible place, but it was also a condition of God’s grace.  An idea, the way angels are ideas.  Physically, it was located in the area between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, but it also existed as a concept within what eventually became Heaven.”

Dean nods, trying to stretch his comprehension wide open in preparation for when this got weird.  

“There is a translation in your Bible that refers to the creation of the universe and gives the time frame as seven days.  While there were seven distinct periods of creation, they were in God’s time, not man’s.  God gradually formed man from clay, passing through the stages of fish and primates… and eventually a form similar to what you know now was crafted.  Adam was one man the way an angel has one voice,” he pauses, realizing that Dean has likely never heard an angel’s natural voice, “He was one man made of many generations of men.”

The hunter blinks slowly then nods, casting a look over at his younger brother to see if he is having any difficulty grasping this.  Sam seems fine with it, but Dean also realizes that it’s possible that the two lovebirds have had this conversation before.

 “Okay, so it was basically evolution in the Garden.”

“Yes.”

“And… okay.  You were supposed to be keeping an eye on Adam and Eve,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, “But you…?”

“I was tricked by Lucifer,” he replies, obviously still bothered by this fact even now, “I know that you both have a very negative view of my brother… but you must understand that he was the best of us, the most brilliant, the most loving, he was-”

“A real douchenozzle,” Dean says, cutting him off, “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Gadreel resumes, only slightly cowed by the hunter’s dismissal, “I trusted him because I loved him, which was a mistake.  He was angry that our father had asked us to bow before man… and rather than bow, he sought to destroy man’s bond with God by tempting him to break his trust.  There were no lies before that day - the first was spoken to me, the second to man.”

Dean lets that soak in and inform his perception of the man in the back seat; here was a creature who had watched the Father of Lies start the whole thing; he had been as prepared to face dishonesty as a fawn was prepared to face the grill of a semi; he hadn't understood it, hadn't been built to withstand it, and had to suffer the consequences regardless.  

It's too heavy to say that, though, so he pushes on.

“Okay, so that’s pretty Genesis-y.”

“God broke the bond between heaven and earth, and the Garden as a place of grace existed after only in heaven; the garden on earth became simply a forest and harsh wilderness.  Lucifer was cast into Hell, and I only narrowly escaped the same fate….”

He pauses briefly, then adds quietly, “The cages were originally similar… but mine was in heaven. Lucifer slipped his cage once and unleashed all manner of evils on the Earth, and when he was improsoned again the cage had locks and seals that he couldn't break on his own. Both cages, though, are eternity in the absence of God and his creations.”  
Dean glances over his shoulder to look at him at him incredulously, “Really.  You were locked up pretty much the same as Lucifer, even though you just made a mistake?”

Sam's jaw tightens; the thought clearly bothers him.

Gadreel nods, “I was trusted with something precious and I failed.  He was angry… and it was different them.  Absolute. He was much more wrathful then.  I’ve read your bible, and I can see that his heart softened as he watched man.  As you’ve seen, I have been forgiven… perhaps if he had been then as he is now, my fate would have been different.”

The hunter nods slowly, squinting at a distant road sign and turning those thoughts over in his head.

“Think God would ever forgive Lucifer?”

“If Lucifer was sorry.”

“Were you?” Dean asks.  Sam spares him a look and the older man makes a face at him, "What?"

“I was sorry from the moment I realized my error, but my father was not yet ready to forgive me.”

“Do you think that the devil could ever change his mind?”

Seeing Dean’s look of slight alarm, Gadreel hastens to explain, “It would take true contrition, not just attrition; it would have to be that Lucifer was truly sorry, rather than just weary of punishment.  It would involve changing his ways and bowing to man as God asked.”

Dean nods, relaxing slightly.  He glances at Sam, who is watching Gadreel in the side mirror, “Not that I’m not happy you’re back on God’s good side, but I don’t want Lucifer just popping out of the pit any time soon with a ‘sorry.’”

“It’s possible that Lucifer could change,” the former angel says consideringly, “He is imprisoned with Michael, who is one of the finest angels in heaven.  Intelligent, compelling.  Boundlessly good. I always admired him.  If anyone could teach Lucifer, it’s Michael.”

Dean pauses, his thoughts turning to Lucifer and Michael.  He has a hard time with the idea that supernatural creatures can change, despite that he’s seen it several times.  Castiel, Gabriel, Gadreel.  He has also seen angels that he thought were good turn bad.

Not for the first time, his thoughts turn to his other brother, the one who had not been rescued from the pit.  Adam had been in the Cage for years now in their timeline, which was likely even longer there.  If a month in Hell had been ten years, five years in the Cage had to be like a thousand.  He doesn't know what kind of caretaker Michael is, or if he has tormented his vessel's owner the way that Lucifer did.  He met him twice and he seemed like an okay kind of guy; and if he was supposed to be Lucifer's opposite and a lover of mankind, Dean can only hope that he was taking good care of Adam. He tries to console himself by saying that he is.

That was enough of that.

“And you…” Dean looks him over thoughtfully in a way that makes Sam bristle just a bit, “Your body.  I’ve seen that vessel before, when you first came to the hospital.  What happened to the guy in it?”

Sam seems a bit surprised by that; he doesn't remember when Gadreel took him at the hospital and he hadn't given any real thought to his lover's human body.

Gadreel looks down at his own hands, then tentatively picks up his book again, “I don’t know.  He’s gone… I assume the way that Castiel’s vessel is empty, save for him.  It was the will of God that I should inhabit this vessel.”

“Why though?” Dean asks, “I mean, that guy had a life, right?  Why didn’t God just magic you up another body of your own?”

“I don’t know.  I am not privy to his plans, Dean,” he replies with a shrug, looking down again, “But this is what I am now.  Sam tells me it is _who_ I am…”

"It is," Sam affirms.

There’s obviously some difficulty in that statement still, despite Sam's insistence; Gadreel still laments that this is all that he is, that his body isn’t just a shell for a bigger, smarter creature.  He is the body, the body is him, and it’s simultaneously over and underwhelming.  He sighs lightly.

“I have a question for you, now,” the former angel says thoughtfully.  He pauses for a long moment, almost long enough for Dean to prompt him for more information, then asks, “Did you still feel your bond with Castiel when he was human?"

"Well, you were there.  You tell me," the hunter says shortly, not bothering to deny his relationship with the archangel.  There was no point.

Sam can tell that Dean is uncomfortable with the direction that the conversation has taken; he wishes, not for the first time, that he could silently communicate with his beloved.  He would, without hesitation, tell him to shut up.  He braces himself for Gadreel's response,

"I don't know.  I kept us separate while I was using your vessel; I knew only your surface emotions when we passed control between us."

"Bullshit.  You were watching when Cas and I-" he cuts off abruptly.  It was one thing to know that Gadreel had been watching when he'd slept with his angel, another entirely to talk about it, particularly in front of his baby brother, "Which is thirty-one flavors of _not okay_ , by the way.  Don't tell me you didn't know what was going on."

"You told me to take you when he died," Gadreel says in his own defense, "I had to watch to know when that would be."

Dean pauses.  He had invoked the angel, hadn't he?  Called the bastard a sonuvabitch too.  Still, he wasn't going to give up that anger or awkwardness, especially when Gadreel continued speaking.

"I feel privileged to have-"

" _No._ "

Sam has a bottle of some nasty fermented hipster health tea on the seat between them.  Dean briefly considers breaking the glass bottle over Gadreel's head and then using it to slit his own throat.  He can feel the color burning in his cheeks and isn't sure if it's rage or horrified embarrassment.

"Look.  Going forward, we're not gonna talk about that.  Like ever again.  I'm not okay with it. Got it?"

"Yes, I-" the blond begins, starting in surprise when Castiel is suddenly in the back seat beside him.

"Hey, Cas," Dean says brightly, relieved by the distraction.

"Hello, Dean.  Sam said that there was an emergency," the archangel replies, his brow furrowed in confusion.  

Everyone looks at Sam with a different expression - Cas is perplexed, Gadreel is slightly accusatory, and Dean looks like he can't decide if he's angry, relieved, or amused.  Sam holds up his hands defensively, giving them all a sheepish little smile.

"Only emergency here is that the ride wasn't quite awkward enough without you,” Dean assures him.

"I thought awkwardness was usually a bad thing," Cas replies readily.

The angel glances over at his brother, who is looking at him with a familial fondness that Castiel still struggles to reciprocate.  He has told the blond that they are family and that he will help him to face his mortal life, but he still feels angry sometimes when he sees him; he remembers his long-term anger over Gadreel's original fall, and when he looks at him he still sees the angel who looked at him out of Dean's eyes.  The angel who wouldn't give Dean back, the angel who refused his plea to take him as a vessel instead.

He nods to the former angel, who seems satisfied with the small interaction.  Gadreel settles back again and opens his book.

"Yeah, well," Dean replies, lacking a snappy add-on for that one.  _Good ol' Cas_. "But you're so good at it."

The rumpled creature raises his eyebrows at Dean challengingly, "Do you actually need anything?"

"Just your company" Sam pipes up from the front seat.  He knows Dean well enough to know that he'll say no even if he wants his lover to stay.

Cas turns his intensity on Sam, "You said it was an emergency."

"Well, otherwise you only come for Dean."

The word choice is unintentionally awkward for both of the brothers in the front seat.  Dean's jaw tightens and he looks pointedly at the road while Sam quickly adds, "I mean, when he calls.  You never show up when I ask."

The innuendo is completely missed by both of the passengers in the back. Castiel continues to just stare at him.

"Yeah, way to wrangle the elephant in the room, Sammy," Dean comments drily.

Gadreel looks up from his book, "An elephant?"

"There's no elephant," Cas informs his brother brusquely, "And we're in a car."

Sam snickers and Dean laughs outright, his embarrassment forgotten for the moment.  Glancing over at the younger hunter, he grins brightly.

"Aaaanyway," Sam laughs, happy for having two socially stunted angel derivatives to serve as ice breakers.  “We were just discussing Genesis."

Castiel nods thoughtfully, looking at Gadreel, "I trust Gadreel was a good source of information for you."

Dean nods, "Sort of, but it's all kind of contradictory."

"Time isn't purely linear, particularly for creatures who exist on multiple planes.  I don't mean to condescend, but it would be almost impossible for you to truly follow the timeline of creation.  As you moved further from God, your mind became more different from his, less able to comprehend.”

Sam is about to ask another question when he suddenly finds himself seated in the back beside Gadreel.  The change in position is jarring and leaves him momentarily silent as his brain catches up with his body.

Cas, now sitting shotgun, glances over his shoulder at the hunter in the back seat.  His expression is subtly smug when he turns his attention back to the driver.  Dean seems just as confused as Sam by the change in seating arrangements, but he laughs to cover his surprise.

“Got tossed in the back, ‘ey Sammy?”

Sam shakes his head, still reeling.  Gadreel perks up slightly at seeing Sam seated beside him and reaches across the broad back seat to take his limp hand.  Sam comfortably curls his fingers between his; he isn't self-conscious, not really, and he isn't the type to reject any affection given sincerely.

Cas, who is aware of every molecule of gasoline combusting in the engine, every dip in the pavement, and every movement within the car, notices immediately and feels an unaccustomed prick of jealousy.  He glances over at Dean, who is obliviously watching the road, then looks back to the road himself.  He knows that it isn't him as much as his male vessel that puts Dean into such deep denial, but he can't help but envy the fact that Sam will unflinchingly allow displays of affection in public.

Just out of curiosity, he reaches over and experimentally lays his hand on dean's where it rests in his lap. Even though the seat back obscures the gesture from the sight of the other passengers, Dean stiffens slightly and reflexively pulls his hand away.

Cas sits back again, slightly stung but not at all surprised.

"Did you want shotgun for a reason?" Dean asks when no one replies to his previous statement.  He doesn't mind general silence, but unanswered questions and jokes that don't receive a laugh nettle him. Castiel's silence now bothers him in particular.

"Sam should be beside Gadreel rather than me."

The unspoken implication that Castiel should be beside Dean too makes the hunter blush slightly and wish he hadn't asked; he isn't sure what response he'd expected, though maybe he had actually sort of wanted to hear that Cas wanted to be next to him.  

"Fair enough," he replies brusquely, "You find out anything in heaven while you were avoiding the family road trip?"

Castiel cocks his head to the side, "Nothing relevant to the situation on Earth."

Dean nods and says derisively, "Okay.  Well, that's _useful_."

The archangel spares him a look, "I'm allowed to visit my family even when it's of no benefit to you."

"Easy there, I didn't mean anything-"

He hears the sound he didn't want to hear - the rustle of departing wings - and doesn’t bother to finish his statement to the now-empty passenger seat.  

He glances up at meet Sam's eyes in the rear view mirror.  He laughs, even though he doesn't feel like it, then declares, "Archangel on the rag, I guess."

Sam rolls his eyes at him emphatically and Gadreel just continues reading.  Dean notices then that the two are holding hands and realizes what Cas what doing.  

 _Failed that test_. he thinks ruefully, though he isn't sorry.  The angel knows the rules and Dean isn't changing them.  Sam gaying it up has no bearing on what was acceptable behavior for Dean. Even if Sam and Gadreel were screwing in the back seat, he wasn't going to sit and hold hands with Cas in front of them.  

Within a few minutes, the awkwardness has settled.  The next few hours pass with almost the usual amount of conversation, despite that Sam is talking from the back seat. By the time they reach Peoria and stop for the night, Gadreel has moved to the middle seat and Sam has settled with a comfortable arm around him.

They get two rooms, and Dean walks to his alone.  He doesn't mind being on his own, though he hopes not to remain so.  He is hoping that Cas will come when he calls him, even though he left in a huff earlier.

This time, the archangel doesn't appear immediately.  It doesn’t really surprise him; when they fight, Cas likes to take his time coming around to remind him that he is there on his own terms.  However, by the time that Dean has eaten a quick takeout supper with Sam and Gadreel and showered, he has started to wonder if the angel isn't coming.

As he strips off his overshirt for bed, he prays aloud, "Okay, Cas.  I'm putting up the wards in a minute.  If you want in tonight, you better get your feathered butt down here."

Dean nearly knocks into the shorter, immoveable creature when he turns around.  He smirks, satisfied because Castiel has given in and come to him even though he is still mad.

Cas pushes him back against the motel door and holds him easily, keeping him pinned between his body and the cold metal.

"Hel _lo_ ," Dean breathes in surprise.  As sexy as shows of dominance from Cas could be,  he's aware that this is not the time to get hot and bothered; he can tell by the sharpness of his expression and the set of his soft mouth that Castiel means business.

"I don't appreciate how you have been treating me," the angel tells him, his blue eyes flinty and attractively, terrifyingly wrathful, "I don't exist for your convenience."

"Hey, I never said you did," Dean says defensively, “In fact, I think you’re probably about the least convenient person I know.”

Cas stares at him in the piercing way that he often does; the hunter looks back levelly, sighing.

“So what’s the problem, Cas?” Dean asks, slouching into his hold knowing that his companion would support him, “You’re touchy as hell lately.”

Dean hasn’t spent too much effort on trying to figure out why (aside from his usual self-assignment of guilt), but the angel has been increasingly short with him for the last two weeks.  It was strange because when they traveled together recently, things had seemed fine.  Great, even.  Good conversation - though Cas let him do most of the talking, per usual - and great sex.

Then all of the sudden, boom.  Bitch Cas.  

At the moment, Dean’s pretty sure that he’s pissed him off further with his question.  _Maybe_ , he reflects, _there was a better way to have asked that_.  

But all at once Castiel seems to settle.  The rigid line of his body relaxes, and he eases up against him in a more intimate, affectionate way that eliminates the aggressive spaces between them.  With a quiet, unnecessary but emotive exhalation, he presses his face into the hollow of Dean’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, okay.  You just want to get pissy with me about it?” Dean asks, lifting a hand to smooth Castiel’s mussed hair.  “Cuz you know, hey, that’s fine.  You can just poof off on your own in the middle of a conversation.  That’s cool.”

“It’s just overwhelming, Dean,” he replies, his voice muffled against the hunter’s sleeve.

“What is?”

“Everything.”

Dean sighs and tugs the angel up against his chest tightly, wrapping both arms around him and holding him.  He felt like he had spent more time just holding Castiel since his godly possession than any time before.  On one hand, he didn’t mind; he liked feeling like he was tough and brave enough to comfort him.  On the other, he is keenly aware that the body in his arms is a just a placeholder for a creature that is too large and powerful for him to even imagine, and he sometimes feels as though efforts to protect him are some kind of farce.

Still, he isn’t going to push him off when he’s like this, particularly given the alternatives.  He rubs his back, wanting to touch his wings and instead sliding his fingers from the small of his back to his shoulder blades and back down.

“Wanna be more specific?” he asks.

Cas shakes his head, but pulls back slightly so that his face is no longer hidden in his shirt.  His mouth is pressed firmly to his companion’s shoulder and his brow rests against his neck.  He stares at the dingy emergency exit instructions that are adhered to door beyond Dean’s back.  He knows that a few doors down, Sam and Gadreel are curled up in one of the two double beds in their room.  He can hear them talking over the day and their travel so far.  Gadreel is excited to be with them, though Castiel can hear in his pulse that he is a bit afraid of facing demons as a mortal man.  They talk about the book that Gadreel read during the drive, though Sam is tired and only half-listening as his beloved describes the social structure of shifters and their use of normal humans as breeding surrogates.

It doesn’t take any effort to know how they’re positioned, Sam sitting up against the headboard and Gadreel wrapped around him lazily.  They’re very natural, despite that there is a fundamental mismatch of physical forms.  _It happens_ , Cas acknowledges.  He sometimes wonders if Dean would want him more if he took a different vessel - one with long legs, full breasts, and soft mouth.  A vessel that he could love even in front of other people.  He knows that Gadreel feels the same way and he feels a touch of empathy for him; at least Dean touches him without hesitation when they’re alone.  

 _Beloved_ , he thinks.

Castiel realizes that his thoughts are disorganized and reins them in again, giving Sam and Gadreel their privacy as the hunter moves to silence his descriptions with a long, slow kiss.  He stops thinking about the movement of stars in a more distant corner of the universe, he stops listening to the chatter of other angels and the unfulfilled, undirected prayers of the humans around him.  He forces the nebulas blooming in the depths of his angelic heart to quiet so that he can focus on the human man who is holding his mortal form.

_Wanna be more specific?_

“I don’t want to be the only archangel,” he finally says quietly.

Dean sighs quietly and kisses his temple, “Don’t think we can do much about that.”

“There’s just too much.”

He can’t find words to describe the responsibility that has fallen on him as the strongest angel in heaven.  God had altered his mind to control the power, but he had not lived long as an archangel and he isn’t ready for the expectations of his brothers.  He wasn't ready to endure the heartbreak of learning which angels were trapped in Hell and he isn’t ready now to take decisive action.  He isn’t ready to cut them down with his sword to punish them for taking an oath against heaven, even though that is what is right.  That is what is expected of him now.  He is wrath and glory and God’s lingering light.  He feels the power arcing and smoldering around him even now, even as his beloved holds him as though he’s breakable.

Sometimes he worries that he will hurt him, that his power will startle him and Dean will suffer for it.  He focuses hard on feeling and knowing the body against his in all its strength and fragility.

Dean nods, “Well, we’ll figure it out, Cas.  We’ll get it for you.”

The archangel doesn’t think that they will, but he nods for Dean because he knows that he needs to think he can help him.  Finally, he pulls back and says, “I haven’t meant to be… _touchy_.  It isn’t you.”

Dean knows that he should apologize here for a couple of bitchy comments that he made himself, but he doesn’t.  He hasn’t exactly been blameless as he’s reacted to his own paranoia - the human mind isn’t meant to deal with losing loved ones and having them restored, over and over.  He feels a constant, low-level anxiety now that it will happen again, but this time only half-way; he worries that Sam will stay dead, or that Cas will die and be dissipated into the universe.

Castiel is the only one he can’t meet again in heaven if the angel manages to get himself killed.  Gadreel saying it aloud had made it more real.

He rests his hands on Cas’ forearms, keeping them face to face though his gaze slides slightly to the side.  He replies, “It’s fine.  Just don’t think you can’t tell me when something’s up, okay?”

“The same is true for you,” Castiel tells him meaningfully, leaning closer and forcing him to make eye contact.  

Dean sighs and assures him, “I’m fine, Cas.”

He raises his eyebrows as he looks at his taller lover, his full mouth pressed in slight annoyance.  They know each other so well now that they can translate from their avoidant, laconic statements to the emotions beneath.  

“Fine.  _Good_ ,” Cas replies, and Dean knows that he knows he’s lying.  The hunter licks his lips and is about to reply when Cas adds forcefully, “I love you, Dean.”

He presses forward, pushing Dean back against the door again as he kisses him to save him from having to respond.  His hands move to Dean’s strong chest, feeling the quickening of his heart under his vessel’s fingertips as he holds him firmly in place.  The hunter kisses him back hard, answering his statement in his own way.

It’s a way Castiel understands.  He finally pulls back, releasing his slightly winded boyfriend.  Dean looks well-fucked rather than just kissed, with his cheeks flushed and his pupils dilated.  He laughs breathlessly, commenting, “Well, okay.  Glad we sorted that out.”

Nothing is sorted out, not really, but they’re more comfortable with one another again.  There’s a familiarity in this type of _not talking_ , where they know that they are holding back things that only hurt themselves.  They communicate well in this minimal, stoic way; they both can read each other well enough to know that they need to extend patience and some form of nebulous support.  They both love each other enough to do it without question, knowing that neither of them is faultless.

“Yes,” Cas agrees, walking over to the sofa in the corner.  Opposite it, there is an ancient television that is playing some sports game that isn’t holding anyone’s attention in this room.  He slips off his trenchcoat, which always makes Dean feel as though he’s half-naked, then loosens his tie, “And I suppose now you’ll want to have sex so that we can continue to not talk about the elephant in the room.”

Dean grins at him, “You looked it up.”

The angel smiles slightly, “Yes.”

He walks closer to him and slips his arms around him from behind, kissing the back of his neck.  He holds him comfortably, feeling better when they were touching.  This kind of closeness is enough right now; he doesn’t need to have sex with him to prove anything.  He doesn’t need to claim him or possess him to know that he’s his.  He kisses up to his ear, then rests his lips against his hair mildly.

“Siddown,” he tells the angel, nodding to the sofa, “I’m gonna rub your shoulders and we’re gonna watch the news.  Then after that, it’s magic fingers and making out.  Got it?”

Castiel knows that Gadreel and Sam are both settled in, reading and occasionally conversing.  They talk about everything and there are comparatively few secrets between them, save for the depth of Gadreel’s heartbreak over his lost immortality.  He’s still envious, but he can’t discount what he has; the man pressing kisses into his hair needs him, and in return he loves him with every fiber of his angelic being.

“Got it,” he murmurs, pulling away and walking around to sit on the sofa.

Dean stands behind him and leans over the back, resting his strong hands on his angel’s shoulders.  He wants to offer to rub or preen his wings instead, but Cas hasn't suggested that intimacy by unfolding his wings and Dean won’t ask for it.  He never asks for things that he knows are meaningful; if they aren’t offered to him, they feel pointless.

Still, Cas relaxes slightly under his touch.  Even though he’s only touching his vessel, Castiel is wired in tightly and responsive to his attentions.  He works his thumbs into the stiff muscles, commenting, “Hey, switch it to the news will you?”

The channel changes without either of them moving.  Dean sighs comfortably, watching the anchor talk about the upcoming Super Bowl.  He likes football, but his life is interesting enough that he doesn’t get adrenalized (or even to deeply invested) in a bunch of guys running up and down a field.  Add some werewolves and shit and it would hold his attention; though really, that would be more like a gladiatorial battle than a sanctioned sport.

“So,” he says, “We’re planning to leave tomorrow morning, early.  You gonna ride along?”

“If only to enhance the awkwardness of the commute, yes.”

Dean laughs a little, “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that today.  Gadreel’d just been asking some stuff and I was kinda on edge.”

Castiel nods almost lazily, “What was it?”

“Ah, it was about when you and I… y’know.  And he was there.”

“When I was dying?”

Dean stiffens slightly at the directness of the statement.  He closes his eyes briefly, forcing himself to continue kneading his lover’s muscles and trying to make him feel good.

“Yeah.  That.”

“You’re still angry with him.”

“He shouldn’t have been watching.  That was personal.”

Castiel’s shoulders lift under Dean’s hands in a shrug, “He’s done worse.”

Dean is surprised by the lack of vehemence in his angel’s response, “Yeah… but… it’s _really_ personal!  Doesn’t it weird you out to know that he knows what it’s like to have sex with you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t realize I was dating a freaking exhibitionist,” Dean huffs.

The angel perks up, the corner of his mouth hitching upward slightly, “We’re dating?”

“We, ah, don’t have to put a label on it.”

“But you said dating.”

Dean groans, “For chrissake, Cas.  Fine.  We’re dating.  You want a ring too?  Picket fence?”

“I don’t know what I would do with a picket fence,” he admits, turning his head and kissing Dean’s fingers where they rest on his shoulder.  Well, dug in almost painfully on his shoulder.

The hunter relaxes slightly, laughing, “Yeah, whatever.  Com’mon, we talked over the weather and I-”

Cas stands with his same artful, efficient smoothness, then turns to face him.  Leaning over to kiss him, he murmurs “Thank you, Dean.”

“Right,” he replies, unaccustomed color rising in his cheeks.  He can’t think about the fact that he’s given the angel what he wanted - _Angels like words, Dean.  Labels, descriptions, names_ \- and he’s slightly disappointed with himself for giving them a label that falls so far short of what he thinks they are.  They aren’t some schmucks who go to movies and eat at fancy restaurants and that sort of rom-com shit; they fight side by side, they fuck like maniacs, they take care of each other, they need each other.  

Still, he can’t help but notice how happy Castiel is with the banal admission, and that makes it a bit more okay.  If he can distract him from the fact that he’s heaven’s brightest night light for a minute, fine.  Just fine.

“Magic fingers and make out?” the angel asks hopefully.


	2. Chapter 2

Alison, who is no longer Alison at all, is making her way to Texas.  With the gates of heaven reopened she should be able to fly; however, she was hobbled long before the fall and still hasn’t healed sufficiently to cover more than a few miles at a stretch. Being who she is, having done what she's done, she knows that any flashy manuvers are out of the question until she can hold her own in a fight.

So she walks until she she can hitchhike, and when the driver has _expectations_ , she slits his throat with her sword and drives his car until it runs out of gas.  She doesn't entirely understand automobiles or traffic rules, but most of the concepts are fairly simple.  Likewise, she had no patience for predatory men and her treatment of them is fairly straightforward; they disgust her in a distant, impersonal way.  

She thinks that Malachai's faction might accept her, but she doesn't know for certain.  She listens to them as she moves gradually further south, trying to sort out the level of their desperation.  She can hear them more clearly, feel the buzz of their life in her tattered feathers, as she moves south in another stolen car. The temperature is warming and the humidity is rising, though she hardly notices the air on her vessel at all.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

"Four Feds?" The local cop asks, raising his thick, salt and pepper eyebrows at the group of tall, sturdy men in slim-fitting, cheap suits and heavy overcoats.

"Three and an intern," Dean corrects gruffly.  He's grown into his cover as a federal agent, with the broad shoulders, daily’s stubble, and confident swagger; a man in his mid thirties is much more believable as a seasoned agent.  He enjoys a different sort of credibility now than he had as a younger hunter, though it always burns him to paste in a new photo when they have to update their badges for format and serial number changes.

Dean holds out his hand to shake, "Agent Kay, my partner Agent Edmonton.  That's Agent McJohn in from DC and his assistant, Intern Stockholm."

Dean has referred to Gadreel as Stockholm several times in various contexts over the last week, using it as a nickname.  It started out as a joke over the fact that there is no good nickname for "Gadreel," but to the taller hunter's annoyance it seems to be sticking despite that it was no shorter than the angel's given name.  He bristles inwardly and resolves to punch Dean for it later, but remains outwardly calm.  He'll get even later by making a comment about Agents Kay and McJohn and an office romance .

Gadreel, predictably, had no reaction.  

"Well, I'll show you the body.  It's pretty damn strange, creepy as hell," the police officer says, walking the group past the yellow tape and a handful of other officers and medical personnel.  Sometimes Dean marvelled at how easily a fake badge could get them behind police lines; from years of hunting, he was almost positive that he had all of the requisite skills to both be an effective serial killer and get away with it.

The driveway to the remote house is loose gravel, though it was held together and made fairly slick by a layer of frozen slush. Dean doesn't mind secluded country settings, but he preferred to be further south when the weather got this cold; Pennsylvania in January was its own unique brand of awful.  Even snugged into fairly sturdy wool coats with thick gloves, Dean is a southerner at heart and feels exactly how the damp chill permeates multiple layers.  He hates how he can feel the muscles in his lower back tense and clench with each gust of wind.  Castiel, who has only his customary trenchcoat and no gloves at all, is the only one of the group who doesn't seem to be in rush to get into the cabin ahead.

Gadreel, who is unaccustomed to shuffling about in boots, slips on the ice and catches on to Sam's arm to steady himself.  Apologizing profusely, he pulls away and falls a step behind to distance himself in embarrassment.

They walk into the house, a log cabin construction with a surprisingly modern assortment of appliances and amenities, and Dean is surprised by just how well-insulated and warm it is.  The heat is obviously off, but spared from the bitter outdoor wind and ice he feels his shoulders relaxing.

Cas immediately notes the faint smell of death and comments lowly, "It's only been a few hours."

He's aware of another smell, a harsh chemical scent that he's certain even his human companions must perceive.

Dean nods, then asks their guide, "So, you got the guy who did it?"

"Not sure.  The homeowner calls us in a panic and says that he came home and some woman was torturing this guy in his living room.  Said she said she'd let him go if he read some scrap of paper after she left.  Said the vic was a demon."

The cop leads them to the corpse in question. The body of a college-aged man is slumped in a chair at the center of a devil's trap, tied clumsily but efficiently at the wrists and ankles.  The floor and the man himself are covered in salt and blood; even now, his clothes and hair are wet with what Dean can only assume is a mixture of holy water and blood. The types of torture fail to get a strong reaction from either of the hunters, though Gadreel exhibits a fresh, horrified curiosity that befits his cover as an untried intern.

Castiel frowns slightly at the sight, then breaks away from the group to walk the perimeter of the room on his own errand.

"This is a..." Gadreel begins, but he's silenced when Dean jabs him in the ribs with his elbow.

"How credible this guy seem?  I mean, this place smells like a meth lab," Dean asks casually, glancing over at Sam to get his read on the situation.

"It _is_ a meth lab.  In the basement.  So yeah, not very."

Sam glances at his brother briefly, all but asking _How do you know what a meth lab smells like?,_ before he nods and he walks a lap around the body.  The water doesn't have the usual spatter patterns that he would expect from being poured; by constrast, it seems more like an overall, even dampness.  Glancing around, Sam notes that there is a plant mister on the coffee table that is not marked as evidence.  He briefly walks over to look at the perky, clear pink plastic bottle, barely registering the familiar crunch of rock salt under his boots. 

"Hey, looks like he's been shot full of rock salt," Dean comments, "Close range. Bet that hurt like hell."

Gadreel nods, taking the statement extremely literally. 

Sam notes that application of the demon tortures are very deliberate, but also very clinical and very hands-off.  None of these things would have required the attacker to enter the circle or physically touch the demon.  He doesn't know what sort of hunter would use this technique; it's possible that because it was a female hunter, she was less comfortable putting herself in close proximity with a larger, male-bodied monster.  Hunters were great and the Winchesters were often glad to see them, but he didnt want anyone ganking Linda Tran before they got to her.

He loops back around and asks, "Was the suspect there when the vic died?

"Nope, said he just ran."

"Mm," Sam hums thoughtfully

There's the question of whether the demon was exorcised and the human host died of the sustained injuries or whether the demon was killed somehow. He leans closer, then realizes he's hit paydirt when he sees the distinctive triangular puncture of an angel blade in the corpse's upper chest.  

"There's the actual method of death," Sam comments in his low, assured FBI voice as he reaches forward to push the victim's collar aside to expose the marks.

Dean nods, "Well, one thing's for sure; this is pretty sick. Did the suspect give any description of the woman he saw?"

"Short, Asian, likely in her late forties.  Beyond that, nothing useful."

Dean's eyebrows flick upward; he had been pursing a line of thought similar to Sam's a moment before.  It seems now as though the hunter was of no concern to Mrs. Tran because it likely _was_ Mrs. Tran.  Which made absolutely no sense, as far as he was concerned.

"Do you happen to have what this mystery woman wanted him to read?"

"Not with me... but if you come down to the station we've got it in evidence.  Looks like a foreign language."

"Like Latin?" Castiel asks from where he is crouched down to examine the demon trap down on the floor.  Dean has told him that he is able to sound more human in short statements, so he intentionally keeps his questions minimal.

"Yeah.  Could be."

Dean and Sam share a look. Sam nods quickly, "Thank you, officer.  We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

They walk out together, all quiet as they consider the situation. They are all considering different angles, though Sam and Dean's thoughts are following well-mapped flow charts of creatures and scenarios that will eventually bring them to similar conclusions.  Castiel is pursuing different avenues of thought and reviewing the situation on a spiritual and molecular level as Gadreel just takes the whole situation at face value and applies what he has learned from the Men of Letters library.

As they approach the car and break away from the sparse, chilled local authorities, Gadreel comes up alongside Sam and whispers, "That was an exorcism, Sam.  Only it wasn't completed.  The hunter killed the demon instead with an angel sword!"

"Yeah, you're right."

Sam finds his enthusiasm charming.  He isn't saying anything that he hasn't figured out on his own, but he appreciates his contribution to the investigation nonetheless.

From beside them, Dean says, "Sounds like it's Mrs. Tran, doesn't it.  I mean, this is the area we've tracked her to... But it doesn't really make sense."

"Indeed," Castiel agrees, trailing behind his lover by several steps, "By all accounts, she's possessed by a demon." 

Sam climbs into the passenger side of the Impala, keeping his favored seat in the front.  He doesn't care if Gadreel wants to cuddle up with him in the back of the cold car, or that their resident archangel wants to sit with Dean; the front seat is his place and he's not being moved.  He hasn't been relegated to the back since they were driving around with their father.

He can only imagine what John Winchester would have thought about his sons hunting with their inhuman boyfriends.  He'd have had a conniption.  He also has the sudden to think realization that it's exactly why Dean is Captain Closet; if he had picked up on his brother's interest in men when they'd been younger, it was nearly impossible that an observant adult would have as well.

He doesn't want to think about how that conversation must have gone.

He's broken from that line of thought by Dean flopping heavily into the opposite side, "Guess we better find her and figure out what's going on."

"Yeah," Sam agrees distractedly, nodding several times in slow agreement, "but then, that was always the plan."

"It's curious that she's got an angel blade," Gadreel comments.

"Not really," Dean replies, "We've got like ten in the trunk.  With angels getting killed all over the place, there are bound to be some swords laying around."

To Sam's surprise, Gadreel protests sharply from the back, "Show some respect, Dean.  These are our brothers and they're dying out."

"Because they're freaking shanking each other and trying to kill us," Dean says defensively, unable to stomach being scolded by his brother's boyfriend.  He glances at Cas in the rear view mirror to see if the archangel seems to be on his side.

Castiel is looking straight ahead.

"Be that as it may, you shouldn't be so flippant.  Angels aren't like humans.  Only God can create an angel.  Our numbers are significantly diminished and this war will only further damage our family."

Dean raises an eyebrow, wanting to point out that he had offed a couple angels on Metatron's say-so.  However, he knows he can't do so without highlighting the fact that Castiel killed hundreds of angels during his God delusion. He can almost feel the archangel behind him bracing for impact.

Instead, Dean backs down, grumbling, "Fine, I'll try to mind my freaking manners."

Sam nods to himself, appreciating the reasons why Dean might have dropped the argument.

"Anyway," Dean says irritably, pulling out onto the road.  When he's annoyed, the car becomes an extension of his body; the impala's smooth, sharp turn seems almost petulant.  "I'm not too surprised she's got an angel blade.  I'm more curious why a demon iced a demon."

Castiel shrugs eloquently.  His gaze is distant as though he is looking at something far beyond the bumper of the Impala.  It is the expression that Sam has occasionally referred to as his "load screen" or his "click to continue installation" face; if either Winchester was looking at him, he'd recognize immediately that their angel is barely in the car with them at all.

Gadreel suggests, "Maybe she's no longer possessed."

"There was sulfur all over," Cas comments distantly.

"How does that work anyway?" Sam asks tiredly, "because you know, we've met like hundreds of those guys and it's not like they're just shooting the stuff all over.  But when we're investigating there's always some trace of it."

"Yeah, what the heck," Dean agrees, as though he has never considered this before either.

"Dean, would you please turn here? I believe I've located a group of five demons and I think she may be among them."

The hunter makes the abrupt right turn and Sam grimaces.  He knows Dean well enough to read the driving style like body language; Dean is irritated, possibly even angry.  He finds himself hoping that this minor skirmish hasn't undone the progress that the two had made.  With everything else going on, Sam doesn't have time for his brother and his most beloved to be bickering.  

"Five's a pretty decent number," he says, his gaze intuitively flicking to Gadreel's reflection in the back seat.

Cas notices the look and understands that Sam is concerned for his lover.  He presses his lips thoughtfully, glancing over at Dean and thinking on the mixed messages he'd been getting for the last few weeks.

"I believe I can manage three, leaving one other in addition to Linda Tran for you two to handle," the angel tells him.  He glances over at his own blond sibling consideringly, "Perhaps Gadreel can be useful preparing the trap to hold Kevin's mother while we exorcise her."

"We got trap cuffs in the back," Dean says without thinking.

"Dean," Sam says forcefully, "I think Gadreel should help by preparing for the exorcism."

"Wha-oh. _Oh_. Yeah, good plan.  With the demon fighting thing and how risky this all is, we prolly do need someone just running ops."

Gadreel raises his fair eyebrows in a very human way, then says drily, "Perhaps I should just wait in the car until Sam deins it safe for me."

Sam's knee-jerk reaction is a combination between wanting to inform Gadreel that he's not allowed out of his sight and wanting to assuage his lover's wounded pride.

"Turn here," Cas interjects, "Left."

"We do want your help," Sam assures Gadreel haltingly, "It's just that-"

"It's dangerous.  I know."

"Yeah," Sam drags his fingers back through his thick hair.  He's trying to be encouraging and mindful of his lover's pride, but the situation and Gadreel's tone make him feel uncomfortably pressured.  It makes his voice much sharper and his delivery more clipped than he intends for it to be, "You can come in, just keep back and stay out of the way.    
The former angel looks frustrated; knowing why Sam is being restrictive and snappish doesn't change the fact that he obviously lacks confidence in his abilities.  While Gadreel is nervous, he's also proud of what he's learned and eager to help his new family.  He also feels as though playing an active role in rescuing Mrs. Tran will somehow ease the weight of his trespasses against Kevin. Even though the prophet grudgingly said that he forgave him, Gadreel knows that he dislikes and mistrusts him.

He exhales shortly, sharply, through his nose.  Looking over at Castiel for his reaction (for which there is nothing visible), he nods slows in compliance.  He isn't at all satisfied with the arrangement, but he recognizes the need to comply with orders from more experienced hunters.  They could talk about this (and fight if necessary) back at the motel after they'd all survived and rescued Kevin's mother.

"Just tell me exactly where to be and what to do," he replies shortly.

Sam is relieved that this isn't a fight, but he recognizes Gadreel's anger even though he hasn't been the focus of it before.  He seems to be at odds with everyone in the car in one way or another, making Sam aware of yet another reason why the blond didn't belong on this hunt.  He presses his lips together, closing his eyes briefly to center himself and moderate his tone.

"Yeah, okay."

Dean, to Sam's left, is impressed by how easily Sam convinced his lover to stay out of trouble. Without thinking, he meets Castiel's eyes in the rear view mirror.  

As if reading his thoughts, the angel flatly says, " _No._ "

Dean smirks at that.  He doesn't think that he'd ever be able to keep Cas from offering to take the brunt of an attack; he was self-sacrificing and freaking stubborn to the core. When Cas isn't actively breaking the world, Dean thinks that he's exactly what an angel is supposed to be.  The sort of angel on your shoulder, keeping the nightmares at bay sort of angel. He can remember nights, years before, when he'd woken up to find the angel sitting beside him as he slept to guard his dreams.  

He knows that other angels don't think of him as anything good; Cas is so different from other angels, particularly now that he has an archangel's grace coupled with a heart that has been human.  Unlike his brothers, he knows what it is to regret and to love with a human passion.   

"This driveway," Cas says, leaning forward over the back of the seat to point.  He is very close to Dean, his lips almost against his ear, and the hunter jumps slightly, turning the car sharply down another gravel drive.  

Little rocks flicked up by the wheels ting against the underside of the car and an impending sense of dread falls over the occupants of the car as they wend their way up to a small, run-down cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this section is kind of short. This week was a rough week. Next segment will be longer with a good fight scene! :D


	3. Chapter 3

The angel runs through a roster of peers whose names she could claim as her own, but she knows that her own seraphic face is too recognizable.  She has no need to hide from demons or humans, but she knows that her heavenly brothers and sisters will either kill or throw her back into bondage.  She won’t go, so she is prepared to fight despite that she is not a warrior.  Her blade is sharp and it’s honed sharper, forged harder, by her intensity and her conviction.  She had been wrong, she had made a mistake.  But the mistake was made out of love, and God was love, so how could it have been completely wrong?  
  
She likes the vessel that she occupies, but she can feel that it won’t hold her for long.  If she changes to a different vessel soon, the girl will be spared.  This slim bodied, fair-haired vessel pleases her, though; while she doesn’t identify as either human gender, she likes the way her soft hair falls to her shoulders and the way her hips sway when she walks.  She knows that she could just as easily enjoy occupying a male body, but she finds the female body beautiful and the male body merely utilitarian.  She likes being physically beautiful, particularly with her angelic form disfigured as it is.  
  
Angels are supposed to be beautiful.  
  
She doesn’t like the liberties that men try to take with her, the way they talk to her as though she is weak, small, or unintelligent.  Her true form is thousands of feet tall with wings sweeping and fluid, burning violets that were white-tipped like the waves of an angry ocean.  She is not weak, and even before her occupation her vessel had not been weak either.    
  
She doesn’t play coy the way humans expect; she is direct, though clever.  She doesn’t say who or what she is because no one needs to know.  But she doesn’t hide her intelligence or her fearlessness either as she makes her way through Kansas and further south.  She thinks that she will reach Malachai’s entourage within another day, and until then she can only occupy her thoughts with how she will approach them.  
  
The travel is uneventful, sleepless and constant.  She realizes after a time that the car stops moving when it is out of gas, and to that end she begins refilling the tank so that she doesn’t need to change vehicles.  It is on one of those gas stops that she meets her first human conflict.  
  
She isn’t a fool - she knows that the demon who approaches her car can see her as clearly as she can see it.  Even so, she doesn’t make any sudden movements or in any way indicate as that she dislikes the situation.  
  
“Well, I haven’t seen _you_ in awhile,” the woman purrs melodically, leaning against the pump.  To the angel’s annoyance, she can’t see the digital readout ticking upward as she refuels the truck.  
  
It forces her to really look at the demon before her, past the pretty red-headed visage, and at the horror of the demon’s face.  
  
“ _Abaddon_ ,” she breathes, so surprised that she briefly loses her grip on the nozzle of the pump.  She licks her lips then squeezes again to continue on, meeting the demon’s human eyes rather than looking past them.  She focuses on her sharp cheekbones, her deeply rouged mouth and her dead white skin.  She’s beautiful and terrifying.  Even physically there is a quiet, uncanny horror about her human form that is only enhanced by the stump at her right wrist.  The angel’s eyebrows flick upward, “Always a pleasure.”  
  
“I’m sure.  My, how did you ever slip your leash?”  
  
“I could ask you the same - isn’t Hell all locked up right now?” she asks cattily.  
  
Abaddon leans slightly closer and the angel doesn’t lean back, though she hates the smell of the knight’s sulphurous soul and the strange, burning honey smell of her skin.  Her back is stiff, though her vessel’s face is calm.  
  
The demon’s voice is silver and smooth, though dangerous, “It is… and it’s your lucky day, beautiful, because I am on the wrong side of the door.”  
  
“Whatever you want, I am not interested,” she replies, “I’ve learned my lesson.”  
  
“Quite a lesson it was, wasn’t it Arakiel?”  
  
“Don’t speak my name aloud,” the angel hisses, her eyes flaring blue briefly.  She feels an uncomfortable twinge in her human body as the small show of power damages something deep in the young woman.  
  
Abaddon smiles and leans forward again so that they are almost nose to nose, all sulfur and seduction, “Quite a spectacular fall.  Like a star.  But they pulled you back when you hesitated, didn’t they, _Arakiel_?  I remember you.  So does he, I’m sure.  You were one of his… most beloved.”  
  
“I _was_ his most beloved,” she hisses, looking through the pretty facade to the hideous beast beyond.  Her own damaged wings vibrate with fury at the demon’s nerve.  How dare she taunt her for her sacrifice when Abaddon had given herself over so thoroughly for so much less.  
  
“I’ll never understand why you turned away,” the redhead laughs, “Why you’re still an angel at all; you could have turned in those wings for the sword of a knight.  It would have suited you so much better.  It still could.  We could find you a pretty vessel - a beautiful boy, like you were before.  Somehow I always think of you as a man.”  
  
“And I always think of you as a monster,” she replies sharply, “I am not a warrior, I am a watcher.  I have no interest in fighting, and even less in fighting for you.”  
  
“You wouldn’t want to ally yourself with the Queen of Hell?”  
  
“You’re a queen in exile.  You have no power,” Arakiel spits, replacing the gas cap without looking away from Abaddon, “And even if you did, I would never trust you, nor give you my allegiance.”  
  
Abaddon smiles darkly, drawing an angel blade threateningly, “I suppose I have no choice but to make this a permanent parting of ways.”  
  
Arakiel sighs weightily, “You’re weakened.  One hand, trapped in a festering body… I can see it.”  
  
“Even so, I can cut out your heart,” she promises flirtatiously.  
  
The angel is not a fighter, but she brings her sword to her hand.  She will fight for her life, and that desperation will make her strong; her fear makes her cautious and strategic.  She recognizes that something has happened to the knight of Hell, something terrible that has altered her very state of being.  Even without using her angelic sight, she can sometimes see flashes of her true form.  There is a sluggishness, a clumsiness to her movements that belies a fundamental disconnect between the demon and the meatsuit that it is trapped within; she sees where the cauterized wound at her truncated wrist has melded the beast and its vessel permanently.  
  
She knows that she can’t win on strength, speed, or agility; even in this condition, Abaddon can easily kill her.  Arakiel will have to rely on strategy now, and she will have to simply evade until there is an opening that she can exploit.  
  
When Abaddon lunges with her angel blade, Arakiel twists her lithe body out of the way without countering.  She retreats, staying out of the range if the demon's gleaming blade, allowing herself to be driven back behind the truck.  
  
It's only a deft turn that prevents her from being run through; Abaddon's forward thrust misses, embedding the blade in the metal door, and presses their bodies flush against one another.  Momentarily pinned, Arakiel manuvers her arm to swing her own sword clumsily toward the demon.  
  
Even lacking leverage, the weapon would cut deep. Jerking her blade free of the metal with a whining scrape, Abaddon dances back out of range before diving in again, meeting Arakiel's swing with a ringing clash of metallize grace.  
  
The angel does not want to remain close, so her attack is abortive and she is again on the move.  She retreats and half-hides, shielding herself with the pumps and the sturdy metal poles that support the sheltering overhang.  Abaddons sword strikes unrelentingly, biting deep into metal and plastic as easily as flesh.

"You should just give up, Arakiel.  You're only prolonging the inevitable," Abaddon purrs darkly, her voice lacking any sign of weariness or exertion, "You're weak, your wings are broken..."

She twists the blade in a vicious arc, slicing easily through Arakiel's jacket and shirt front. The metal cuts deeply into her pectoral, nearly severing her breast.  

The angel cries out sharply, jerking back just enough to keep the sword from penetrating her grace.  She can feel that it was a narrow miss, and she is dimly aware of the blood soaking through her vessel's clothing.

She needs to escape, but she knows that her damaged wings won't let her fly far.  This close, with Abaddon tuned in to her movements, she would be pursued immediately.  She could go further, faster, if she abandoned her vessel.  However, she knows that she would be leaving the college girl to a horrific death at Abaddon's hands.  To that end, she grits her teeth and breaks away again, trying to put physical distance between herself and the Knight of Hell.

She can feel something shifting and cycling in Abaddon.  She knows that the demon's grip on her vessel is tenuous and inconsistent.  She doesn't know what has both broken and solidified the bond between her and her human trappings, but she knows that the instability is her only hope for survival.

She catches flashes of the demon's true face even without her seraphic sight; it's like looking at a nightmare, indistinct and made up of fearful concepts but with enough reality to give it form and weight.  Physically it is something like the distorted face of corpse with many sharpened teeth, ebony eyes, and spikes and horns made by spires of bone, blood, and burned flesh.  Spiritually, it is simultaneously like looking into darkness while something unseen is staring back and staring at ones own dead body.  It is revulsion and horror too mind-bending for a human to understand as anything other than terror personified.

Arakiel has seen more terrifying things, and her angelic mind easily comprehends the reality of it.  Further, she spots the weakness, the hitch in her demonic breath as, just for a second, Abaddon loses her hold on her body.

In that slowed instant when every fiber of the demon's reality is bent toward simply continuing to exist, Arakiel focuses inward and takes flight.  With a powerful flap of her damaged wings, more of a leap than of true flight, she is two hundred miles north.

Arakiel slumps down, exhausted.  In that moment of weakness she feels the wounds that her vessel has sustained.  The cut to her chest and sundry other stinging cuts and abrasions hurt in a physical way that is new and unpleasant.  She feels her vessel faltering, both from combat injuries and from the angel burning its way through, and knows that she must give it up.

\-----------------

Sam is slightly mollified by the fact that the former angel is going to hang back and stay out of the melee. However, as they creep up onto the decrepit porch of a run-down country house, he is acutely aware of the exactly distance between the blond and the potential danger; he's also simultaneously mapping out ways to keep himself constantly between Gadreel and the demon threat.

If Dean had known the distraction that Gadreel presented, he might not have allowed him to tag along; both brothers were big on bringing their A game to every hunt, and the fact that this is Kevin's mother makes success doubly important.

Sam sets his jaw, then gestures for Dean and Cas to fan out on either side of the front door as he approaches.  The archangel, not entirely surprisingly, misinterprets the signal and instead vanishes.

A half-second later, there is movement and a howl from within, followed by a blaze so bright that it's visible through the dingy curtains.  With a weighty sigh, Sam rolls his eyes and kicks the door in with one smooth movement.

In the ensuing melee, he realizes that the demons in this party are stronger than the average Hell spawn.  Castiel has his hands full as two demons, both armed with angel blades, attack him at once.  Dean's fight with a frankly huge, burly demon is taking his full attention; the hunter weaves and dodges, but still manages to take a number of solid hits.  The only favor is that the demon is bare-knuckled, but that disadvantage is more than made up by the way that the creature is occasionally gripping and throwing Dean into walls and furniture.

He doesn't see Mrs. Tran, so he joins Dean in his attack.  As soon as he engages, he can feel that this isn't what they're used to; this is a tougher variety of vermin.  
He manages to take some of the damage instead of Dean, but the swipes and stabs of his knife all go wide.  He hears Castiel make a sound of annoyed pain, but he doesn't have time to look.  Dean's head whips in that direction, the distraction nearly costing him the side of his face before he snaps back to the fight.

A flare of red from the right indicates Castiel's victory, and both brothers unconsciously sigh in relief even as they fight for their lives; they know that with the odds evened, the archangel will make short work of his remaining opponent.

The giant they’re facing throws them both back against opposite walls with a laugh, “Hoping he’ll finish up quick and save your sorry asses?”

With a sharp hand gesture, her power presses crushes their chests inward painful, squeezing the blood from their organs and drawing cries of pain from both as they instinctively claw at their chests as though they can ease the painful crush.  

“Fuck…” Dean gasps, turning his eyes toward Cas helplessly just in time to watch his lover sink his blade into his opponent.  Rescue is imminent, but he can literally feel his heart spasming as it struggles to beat until the mounting pressure.

Rescue does not come from their rumpled angel, though.  The demon’s eyes flash as a blade suddenly splits through his chest from behind.  The sound he makes is more surprise than pain; the Winchesters crumple to the ground, unsupported, as their attacker fall heavily to the dusty floor.

The small, dark haired woman that yanks her angel sword free from the body is not who they expect to see.  Sam even half-expected it to be Gadreel, rather than Linda Tran.  He wants to look for his former angel to confirm his safety, but his attention is focused instead on the woman before them.

“Dean, Sam…”

She is slim and strong, dressed simply in clothes that are clean save for the new blood of her demonic adversary.  She looks slightly older, slightly harder with a strange, wounded vulnerability in her dark eyes.

Both men scramble to their feet, breathing hard with their weapons raised.  They don’t understand the situation, which automatically means that they don’t trust it.  Dean looks expectantly to Cas, who is watching her with a strange expression; he wants to ask if she’s possessed or not, or if there is some unusual extenuating circumstance that somehow gave her the strength to shove an angel sword clean through a man’s chest.

“I… didn’t want you to find me,” she said wearily, lifting her hand to her face.  Her set shoulders slump as she watches them, “I don’t want Kevin to know.”  
  


\-------------------------------------------  
  


The girl wakes in pain.  She is aware of what has happened, but she can’t understand why she is empty now.  Lethargic, pained desperation seizes her as she realizes how far she is from home and how badly she is wounded; weakly lifting her hand to her chest, she can feel that her breast is barely still connected to the underlying muscles.  Her shirt and jacket are thick and heavy with her slightly overwarmed blood.

“No…” she breathes, tilting her head back against the side of the building where she has been abandoned “No, no, _no_ …”

More than the pain, more than the fact that she doesn’t even know where she is since Arakiel took off with her, she is devastated by the sensation of being hollow.  There’s no light in her now, no strength, and she is alone both within and without.  It’s evening and the air is warm wherever she is, but her body is wracked with shuddering tremors.  
Or maybe it’s the ground that’s shaking underneath her.

“Arakiel,” she whispers, closing her eyes tightly and praying, “You can’t just… you can’t just leave me like this… you can’t just go…”

Alison doesn’t know that much about Arakiel aside from what she has observed during her possession, but she does know that the angel can hear her when she prays.  To that end, she prays as hard as she can.  _I don’t want to die.  You didn’t say I’d die.  You didn’t say it was dangerous.  Please, please help me.  Please.  Pleasepleasepleaseplease.  You can’t just leave me here.   I don’t want to die.  It’s not fair, I helped you.  You said it would be all right, you said you’d take care of me if I took care of you.  Please.  Please don’t leave me here like this!_

She feels a warm hand on her face and opens her eyes to meet those of a man just a few years older than she is.  Her vision swims, but she is aware that he is handsome with a symmetrical brown face and dark brown eyes.  She is bleeding out and he is beautiful to her, all full lips and soft cologne.

 _And angel_.  She can feel something inside her resonating with him, and she can tell by the inhuman, graceful style of movement that it is her angel.

“Arakiel…”

And then there is a painful quickening that makes her body jerk just once as the angel seams together the broken parts and heals the deep cuts into smooth white lines.  He can’t erase them entirely when the wounds were cauterized by grace.  He moves deeper, making Alison bite her lip so hard that she draws blood as he heals the burns caused by too much angel in a too small vessel.  

“I said I would protect you,” he replies quietly.

“Take me back now,” she says quietly, “I want to be your vessel.”

It isn’t that she loves the angel; she doesn't.  While she is fond of the creature in the limited way that she understands it, it is more than she loves who she was as its vessel.  Studying finance, drinking and hooking up on weekends, her life hadn’t held much meaning and she didn’t foresee that changing.  It had felt like she was just wasting time until she fought to enter a job market where there was no place for her, then she would work to help rich guys get richer while she struggled to make ends meet.  Maybe she’d get married, maybe she’d have kids.  But the meaning wasn’t there, she was hard-pressed to think that there was meaning at all anywhere.  She felt powerless.

It was different when she’d been Arakiel’s vessel.  It was slightly painful and ridiculously intense, but in her moments of consciousness she had felt strong and purposeful.  Dazling, glowing like a star.  Alive in a way that she hadn’t as a simple human.  She had felt like she could do anything, as though she had been made for something important. 

Without that, and with the personification of that life crouching right before her, she feels painfully empty as though she has been gutted and left a meaningless shell.

“Please,” she repeats when Arakiel doesn’t answer her.

The angel sighs.

“Your body is too weak to contain me, it would only be a matter of time before I killed you.”

She feels the words like a punch and is momentarily breathless, “I don’t care.  Is _he_ strong enough?  Can he hold you?”

Arakiel meets her eyes evenly, “No.  He is also temporary until I am able to find a vessel capable of containing me.  I am very old, Alison, older than you can understand, and I am very strong.”

He is very close and very still; Alison can’t imagine the angel in its true form, but she can easily picture broad, broken wings stretching out from Arakiel’s shoulders.  
“Take me with you, then,” she says quietly, “As your spare.  When he can’t hold you any longer, take me back.”

“Alison,” the angel says uncertainly.

“I can be useful to you.  I’m smart, I know a lot about people.  I can help you act normal and not get caught by any more of those demon things or anything.  I know you’re hiding from angels too.  Maybe I can help you. Please let me come.”

The angel can see the intelligence in the suggestion; this vessel is matched in strength to Alison, and he knows that it will only be a few days before he has to abandon him as well.    Another thought occurs to him: if he is unable to locate another vessel, with their consent he could flick between the two and heal them as needed.  It would be an unorthodox arrangement, but Arakiel is not a common angel and these are strange times.

He inclines his head, “We must go immediately.  We’ve lost time and distance.”  
  



	4. Chapter 4

Their archangel seems uncertain as he leans slightly closer to Mrs. Tran. He doesn't approach her, though, and he raises a cautionary hand when the hunters begin to move forward.

"There's something wrong with this," he warns lowly, though his expression has a heightened air of consternation.  He is looking at her as though he is trying to see her through a thick fog, his brow drawn down slightly.

Both brothers have their weapons raised again in an instant, though they don't attack; the delicacy of the situation makes them reliant on the angel's heightened senses.  Both feel uncomfortable with their uncertainty, but they are likewise uneager to have their intestines ripped out.

"She possessed?"

"I don't think so..." Castiel replies uncertainly, "But I can't... _see_ her the way I should.  There's something different.  Something wrong."

"Please just leave me here," she says quietly, her voice firm, "I didn't want to be found."

"Well," Dean says, "Tough.  We found you and we're taking you home to your son."

"It’s too dangerous.”

Sam and Dean exchange a brief, eloquent look.  The younger Winchester’s eyebrows move up, then press down as his facile mouth moves through a rapid series of expressions.  Finally, he drags his hand back through his soft hair uncertainly before asking, “Why?”

Her narrow face is stern but vulnerable, “Abaddon wants a prophet and she knows I’m a way to get to Kevin.  She has kept me with a demon guard for months… I’ve been leading them astray, but it’s only a matter of time before she finds out that you’ve killed them and sends someone new for me.”

“How the hell did this happen?” Dean asks, frowning.

“Crowley’s men were holding me… and…” she begins.  There is an quiet horror implied in the aborted statement, though none of the men there speculated in the same direction, “When he disappeared, his lackeys scattered.  I got away, I tried to make my way back home.  Then Abaddon’s followers found me and I… made a deal.”

Dean groans, “Really now?  Really?  You made a fucking demon deal?”

“It’s not for my soul,” she says as though offended by the suggestion, “I’m not stupid, Dean Winchester.”

Her tone has that pointed “mom” tone that neither of the Winchesters have really known firsthand, but recognize from television.  It’s judgmental but not harsh, and it doesn’t allow for argument.  Hearing it, Dean understands exactly how Kevin was lovingly bullied into a nervous breakdown over college admissions. Iron fist in a velvet glove and all that shit.

“Then what?” he asks, slightly cowed by her.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What did you _do_ ,” Castiel asks, suddenly forcefully re-entering the conversation.  It isn’t quite a question, but it isn’t exactly a statement either.  It demands an answer while implying in no uncertain terms that Linda Tran had done something very, very wrong. 

“I don’t need to answer to you,” she says with surprising vehemence, “You and yours were supposed to protect us.  I don’t owe you anything.”

The angel is surprised, though it barely registers on his face beyond a slight parting of his full lips and a minute tilt of his head.  Dean almost smiles at that; he thinks that the puppy-like head cock is one of the funniest things that he does.  However, when Castiel speaks again, there is nothing funny about his stern tone.

“What did you do, Linda Tran?” He takes a step toward her, “What are you lying about?”

"Cas," Dean scolds, glancing over at him with a frown.

"I am not someone to lie to."

“Easy, Cas,” Dean says placatingly, stepping forward and resting a hand on the angel’s shoulder, “Let's look at this objectively.  Take her out to the Impala, do some tests.  Everything checks out, we take her back to the bunker and get to the bottom of what's going on.”

Linda looks at him askance, “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“Ah, no.  No, not really.  See, we promised your kid we’d bring you home.  And, well, he’s had a bit of a rough month or six and he needs to see that you’re still up and around,” Dean tells her, walking past his lover to lay a hand on her arm.

Her skin is warm under his hand.  Human.  She’s so human and he wants badly to hug her, even though they aren’t close.  That’s where they are now, he realizes; there are so few people left in their lives that everyone, even if they sometimes fight, is precious. Standing there, he is struck by how small she is compared to them.  Castiel sometimes seems downright runty next to him and Sam (and now next to Gadreel as well) but even he towers over Kevin’s mother.  He needs her to be what they think she is.

He’s not sure he’ll be able to handle if it she isn’t.

“I have to stay away to protect him,” Linda says quietly.

“He needs you there,” Dean says flatly, shaking his head, “No arguments.  You’re coming.  We’ve got a secure place… you’ll both be safe there.”

“Dean,” she says warningly.

“Look, you can either walk out of this house or I’m carrying you.”

Her shoulders sag in resignation; she knows that there is no real option for her except compliance.  Even if two huge men weren’t enough to move her, they have an angel.  She turns her head to see a tall, solid blond lingering in the doorway and recognizes that he is also a part of their group.  Sighing, she says “Fine, Dean.”

"Give me that sword," he says, holding out his hand.

She places the gleaming sword gingerly in his palm.  He can tell by how she handles it that she isn't afraid of it, merely cautious - she judges danger by impact on humans.  The fact that it can strike down angels and demons alike doesn't matter to her, it's no more dangerous to her own kind than a kitchen knife. Which is to say its an almost ordinary form of lethal.  A casual deadly.

Dean hands it off to his archangel, expecting that he'd know what to do with that.  With the technicalities out of the way and the course decided, he feels strangely awkward.  He licks his lips and pushes forward.

“Fine, then.  Let’s go.”

He moves his hand to the small of her back and all but steers her toward the front of the house.  Seeing Gadreel, he smirks slightly and comments, “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Gadreel hasn't heard that cliche yet and favors him with a weary, uncomprehending smile.  If  he can recognize that a phrase is an idiom, he will stare apologetically rather than trying to parse it literally.  There are occasions that slip him up, but he is different from Castiel in that he greets most seemingly nonsensical phrases with the knowledge that they may have a secondary meaning; the archangel bullheadedly takes everything at face value even when he knows better, then acts as though its the human interpretation that is strange.

Sam's eyes move quickly over him and ascertain that there is no damage or injury to attend to back in the impala;  Gadreel had actually obeyed him and stayed out of the way.  He feels a surge of relief that almost makes him weak in the knees.

It's followed closely by a strange twinge of anxiety as he recalls again the strength of the demons they'd faced; he and Dean couldn't have finished off that one on their own.  If not for Linda (or Cas), they could have been killed.  Gadreel would have been an easy target then.  If these demons were Abaddon's, his end would have been a horror.  The realization that Abaddon has a personal grudge against his lover broadsides him as he remembers that it was Gadreel who cut off the Knight's hand to bind her into her body.  He was also the one who exorcized her and left her half-way between her meat suit and the gates of Hell.

He can't let himself think about that, or the very real ways that Abaddon would make his suffering last.  _He's warded, she doesn't know that vessel.  She'd never find him,_ he tells himself fervently, trying to think of a conversation opener that would keep them from shuffling out to the Impala in silence.

"So, ah... question," Sam asks abruptly, "You've been traveling with Abaddon's guys for awhile, right?  Why were they so strong?  I've never seen anything like that."

Linda walks with the gentle pressure of Dean's hand at her back.

"They were... I don't remember the word.  It means something like 'beast food," she replies uncertainly.

 _"Bestiae in cibim_ ," Cas supplies readily, his voice openly displeased with the words. He groans unhappily.

Gadreel makes an answering sound of concern.

The Winchesters look at each other, easily communicating their annoyance; these damn angels just always assumed that everyone knew what they were talking about when they referred to seraphic lore or started spouting off Latin.

"And what-" Dean begins.  He cuts off when Linda stops and jerks back in the doorway.  He frowns, immediately pulling his angel blade from inside his long coat as he casts about for whatever had startled her.

The room is empty.

"What is it?"

"Dean," Gadreel says quietly, catching on to the back of his coat and jerking him back and away from the woman.

"What the heck-" he asks, turning confused, angry eyes on the former angel.  The Winchesters didn't just hide behind civilians, especially not tiny, defenseless women.

"Look down," he whispers back forcefully.

Dean drops his gaze to the floor to find that Linda has stopped at the edge of a devil's trap.  

"Whoa, no.  Uh-uh. Just take a step forward - or back, I don't freaking care which - and prove you're not a demon."

She's still for a moment, just watching them.  Her eyes are human and slightly glossy, and Dean is aware that she's shaking slightly.

"It's true," she admits, looking squarely at Dean, "But I have it under control."

"Under control?" Sam demands, eyes wide, "You're possessed by a demon!"

"Yes," Linda says quietly, "And I am controlling it.  I overpowered it and now I can use its powers."

Dean stares, blinking slowly, "Cas, can she _do_ that?  Is it even possible?"

The archangel seems uncertain as he scrutinizes her, "Theoretically... theoretically every manner of possession can be overcome as long as the host is alive."

"You better back this thing up and tell us exactly what happened," Dean says bluntly.

Linda sighs and tips her head back, her soft, dark hair falling back from her tired face.  She reaches up and rubs at one eye, her lips parted slightly, before she speaks, "Nothing I told you before was true except that I was held by Crowley's demons.  They... didn't torture me for information; instead they possessed me.  I told them... _a lot_. I traveled with them until after the angels fell and they did terrible things... I did... terrible things."

She seems moved by emotion, but none of the men approach her.  This takes more effort for Dean and Sam, both of whom have experienced possession first-hand.  

When she recovers, she continues quietly, "I was aware of everything. I saw it all.  And gradually, I don't know how... I took back control.  I didn't let them know.  We... we killed several angels... and I kept a sword.  I used it to kill the other two demons… and I went home, but Kevin wasn't there.  I didn't know how to find him."  
She takes a deep breath and says, slightly accusingly, "I prayed to Castiel.  I knew he could find you, but he didn't answer."

The archangel meets her angry eyes and says flatly, as though it will excuse everything, "I was human at the time."

She snorts and shakes her head disbelievingly.  She paces in the small chalk circle; her shoes smudge but are miraculously unable to damage the surprisingly adept linework.

"Abaddon's followers found me... and they recruited me, thinking I was a demon," Linda says, her eyes flicking to a solid black and making the brothers flinch, "I can turn it on and off."

"I just... I traveled with them for awhile and I learned as much as I could. I kept them from going to the places where I thought Kevin might be... and I have tried to work against them.  I have killed a few weaker ones and questioned them."

"A double agent," Dean nods slowly, impressed.  He looks to Castiel for some sort of confirmation, but the angel has that distant, calculating look again.

"Yes... which is why you have to let me go." Linda pleads quietly, her voice still firm despite her precarious position within the circle, "I can do a lot.  Things you can't do."

Sam presses his lips together, "You could also just be a demon who's pretty good at acting.  Cas, what do you see?"

"The demon has been trapped in her subconscious... That is why I can't see its face even though I can feel its presence."

"So this could be legit?  She could actually be controlling this thing?"

"Yes."

Sam nods thoughtfully but doesn't say anything else for a moment.  Linda, seeing the moment of indecision,says quietly, "If you let me go, I can help you.  I can find out more about Abaddon's plans."

"No," Gadreel says, shaking his head, "This is unsafe and it is _wrong_."

"We don't have any aces in our hand, Stockholm," Dean says, "And the world is ending.  I dunno, maybe we should... consider it."

"I am in full control of its powers," she says, "And its mind. I am.  Me.  I can use this to make up for the bad things I did." Standing at the very edge of the circle, she looks at Sam imploringly, "I know you understand, you know what it's like to do things you don't want to do... I'm still responsible.  I have to do something."

They're all quiet as they watch her, weighing the options and trying to pierce through the veil of ambiguous morality.  

Dean knows that he should say no; he knows that even a few years before he would have killed her rather than leave her possessed.  His perceptions have shifted, though; he has met monsters who weren't monstrous and he has watched demons flip sides.  If Linda can control the power roiling insider her, she isn't evil.  More, he understands the need for atonement.  Atonement is likewise the angle that Sam considers, being that he has recently made a rather large act of atonement in completing the trials.  He understands their importance and he understands the gravity of Linda keeping herself separated from her son.

Castiel is considering the reality of it in simple strategic terms, not human ones; he is trying to statistically validate her ability to continue to maintain control.  He is debating her value versus her liability.

Only Gadreel has no doubts. Standing slightly away from the others, outside of their circle of consideration, he watches them rather than her.  He doesn't feel any conflict except confusion at their consideration.

“I can’t believe you’re even considering this,” he says, staring at them disbelievingly, “She’s possessed.  It’s dangerous… and unnatural.”

“And it may be the only chance we have,” Dean snaps.

“He does have a point,” Sam says defensively when his lover turns his judgmental stare toward him, “She may be able to get close to Abaddon and get more information about what she’s doing… and maybe we could keep tabs on where she is.”

“What if she loses control, assuming she is truly even in control now?  You can’t keep her at the bunker…”

“I wasn’t going to - she’d be working the field, like a special ag-”

Gadreel makes an impatient sound.

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ -"

Sam's head jerks in his direction, "Gadreel!"

" _-omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica_ ," he continues, quickening his pace and jerking back out of reach as Dean makes a grab at him.  

"No, don't!" Linda begs, ineffectively trying to leave the circle to run.

The older hunter doesn't intend to hurt Gadreel as he grabs for him, clumsily catching on to his sleeve and dragging him closer, "Hey, shut up-"

“ _...ergo, draco maledicte..._ ”

It would have been easier to knock him down with a punch than to cover his mouth or talk over him as Dean is trying to do, now aided by Sam.  The blond is surprisingly strong as he struggles, easily recalling and reciting the shortest exorcism that he knows.

" _Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus_ \--"

"We didn't decide-" Sam protests, finally getting his hand firmly across Gadreel's mouth.

Gadreel meets his eyes furiously, then bites the inside of his palm hard.  Sam jerks his hand away more out of surprise than anything else, giving the former angel opportunity to spit out the last two syllables.

They hear rather than see the demon go rushing out in the characteristic cloud of black smoke.  Linda crumples to the floor , falling past the circle that had restricted her just seconds before.

Dean reflexively cuffs Gadreel hard, giving him a rough shake before releasing him and moving him to kneel beside the middle aged woman.  He reaches down and expertly checks the pulse at her neck almost fearfully.

"She's alive, dehydrated and no doubt malnourished," Castiel says for him.

"Yeah, well, you fix that," Dean says gruffly, scooping the unconscious Mrs. Tran easily into his arms.  

 _People are so damn breakable_ , he thinks unwillingly as he gets gracelessly to his feet.  He’s tired and, even as light as she is, Linda’s weight puts him off balance as he straightens his legs and stands.

He spares Gadreel a look and says coldly "You don't get to make the decisions for everybody."

The blond is surprisingly stung by Dean's sharpness.  He's also just as aware that everyone in the room, including the unconscious mother of the prophet he'd murdered, was angry with him.  Sam isn't looking at him and he feels a sudden pang of remorse and doubt as he wonders if he has perhaps drawn blood.

Quietly, lacking confidence in the face of their stony silence, he says, "It was the right decision."

 

\-----------------

 

They leave town quickly after that, leaving the corpses in the cabin after only the most cursory cleanup.  They know how to destroy evidence; they've had a lifetime of not getting caught.  Having an archangel who can wipe any trace of fingerprints, tire tracks, and errant threads of Sam's luxurious hair makes a quick, spotless getaway that much easier.

Even healed by Castiel's grace, exhaustion puts Mrs. Tran into a solid, dreamless sleep.  Slumped against the door on one side of the back seat, she provides an excuse for silence.  Gadreel is human enough now to perceive that the quiet is awkward, and he knows enough of Dean’s body language to recognize that the stiff set of his shoulders is anger.  The Winchesters are both sweaty and sore under their heavy coats, and even Castiel seems to have physically shut down.

Despite being seated beside Sam in the back, Gadreel feels that the other hunter seems remote.  He doesn’t lean into his lover at all, their bodies don’t touch even at the edges.  His gaze is focused outside of the car on the darkening landscape that rushes past the windows, making Gadreel feel as though he is very far away despite that he can almost feel the static where they are not touching.

It’s the most uncomfortable silence that Gadreel has endured, in part because most of his prior quiet time was spent in isolation.  Before that, there was rarely silence because most angels rarely shut up long enough.  Quiet in company is disconcerting; by the time they’ve reached the border of Illinois and Missouri, the blond has reached an internalized level of anxiety that he has never experienced before.

Sam is the one who finally speaks.  His tone is casual, intentionally light.

“We stopping soon for the night?”

“Yeah… figure we can stop at the next town that’s got more than a gas station.  We’re seriously in the middle of freaking nowhere,” Dean replies, sounding like he’s making a conscious effort not to be surly.  Even though he holds Sam responsible for the greater portion of Gadreel’s actions, he knows that he’s the one who said the former angel could tag along; there is no point in being angry with Sam, particularly when he knows in his heart of hearts that Gadreel made the choice they should have.

“Mm,” he hums by way of agreement.  He looks over at Cas, who has been sitting, quiet and self-contained, in the passenger seat and staring at seemingly nothing. “Hey, Cas…?  What is a _bestiae in cibim_ …?” 

The archangel seems to wake, as though someone has flipped a switch to reanimate him.  His eyes, which had been distant and unfocused, brighten visibly.

“It’s very bad,” he begins, ignoring Dean’s interjection of ‘surprise surprise’, “It means that Abaddon is intending to create another generation of knights.”

“Okay…?” Sam asks, trying to prompt him to continue without actually asking.  A normal person, and probably even another angel, would just naturally expound on that tiny scrap of information.  Castiel, despite having a fairly good grasp on the limits of their knowledge, always tends to skimp on the details on the incorrect assumption that they already know.

It's part flattering and part frustrating.

“Bestiae in cibim are part of a ritual to turn a fallen angel into a Knight of Hell.  'Food for the beast.'”

“Wait.  They start as angels?  So Abaddon was an angel?”

Gadreel looks uncertainly at Sam, then quietly explains, “Yes.  When Lucifer rose, 200 watchers fell for him.”

“Like, 5 years ago?” Dean asks in surprise, momentarily forgetting his anger with the former angel.

“No.  That was his second rise,” Castiel says, speaking over his brother.  He isn’t trying to cut him out of the conversation, but is aware that there are gaps in Gadreel’s knowledge that Sam’s memories can’t bridge, “Lucifer’s first cage was much simpler, like Gadreel’s.  It could be opened from the outside if someone was willing to disobey God.”

“That’s stupid,” Dean says flatly.

Cas sighs through his nose as though his lover’s belligerence is actually painful to him.  “Angels were once absolutely obedient, Dean; there was no reason to believe that anyone would defy him.”

The unspoken _And no one did for Gadreel_ hung morbidly on the air.

He pauses briefly, expecting Dean to interrupt again.  When he does not, the angel continues, “Many of the fallen were killed, but 33 became Knights of Hell in Lucifer’s service... they ravaged the world until he was thrown back into the fortified cage that two had the honor of opening.”

“So…” Sam asks, not bothering to assess whether or not Castiel was being intentionally rude,  “How does an angel become a Knight of Hell… I mean, for that matter, what is a Knight of Hell even?”

Gadreel speaks before his brother, wanting to be the helpful one.  He hopes that he can barter information for favor, and perhaps if he can explain this satisfactorily his family will forgive him.  Sitting here between Sam and Mrs. Tran, he knows that he made the morally correct decision; however, he is less confident that it was his decision to make, or that the right choice was the best choice.  

“Angels don’t have souls… we - they have have grace.  A Knight of Hell has cut out its grace and replaced it with a twisted human soul… this is why they can’t be killed by angelic or demonic weapons, because they are neither.  The bestaie in cibim are demons who have been strengthened and prepared to be consumed in the rite.”

“They’re… _built_ ,” Cas resumes, catching on to the end of Gadreel’s explanation as fluidly as if they could still share an angelic connection, “The fact that they exist now means that she is - or was - planning to build her army… I’m assuming that was the intended fate of the angels now in Hell.”

“Well, fuck,” Dean says by way of a pronouncement, tapping an restless staccato rhythm on the steering wheel.

They don’t say anything else until they pull off into a motel parking lot several minutes later.  It’s mostly logistics as they decide how the rooms will be allocated and who will tend to Linda for the night.  The decision is easy; Castiel, as he snootily points out, is the only one with the ability to ease her pain if she wakes.

Gadreel walks beside his taller lover and waits on the dimly lit sidewalk that runs between the parking lot and the bank of cheap rooms.  He watches as Sam fumbles to slide the key accurately into the lock, then pushes the door open in a practiced way; the younger Winchester is a master of rickety doors and cheap locks.

“Ugh, smells like smoke,” Sam comments, making a face as he drops his bags.

The other man nods and protests quietly, “Aren’t all of the rooms non-smoking?”

“Yeah… but it’s possible they weren’t always,” he muses, sighing quietly.  He toes off his boots and peels out of his coat, then tosses himself down on one of the two double beds, “So the smell’s in the wallpaper and the curtains and the carpet… lots of places’re like that.”

Gadreel relaxes slightly at his beloved’s casual tone, then takes a careful perch on the edge of the other bed.

“Mm,” he murmurs, leaning down to unlace his low boots, “Sounds like something you know a lot about.”

“Yeah,” Sam replies, rolling onto his back and pillowing his hands under his head.  

They’re quiet for a moment, Sam staring at the dingy ceiling and Gadreel watching the rise and fall of his broad chest.  For the thousandth time that day, the former angel longs for the closeness that they had lost being separated into two bodies.  At the moment, he doesn’t know where he stands and he feels an uncomfortable quiver in his chest at the thought of asking.

He licks his lips and draws a breath to form a question, but can’t seem to strike up the nerve.  Closing his eyes, he curses his cowardice and takes another breath, trying to will himself to just speak. _Are you angry with me?  Do you still love me?_

He feels stupid and reactionary for even thinking the latter; he would never ask because he knows the answer.  He knows that Sam loves him, but his new humanity’s emotions are sometimes volatile.  He often mistrusts what he feels and he doubts the sincerity of others.  He takes another abortive breath, then sighs weightily.

“Hey, com'ere,” Sam says quietly.

The blond doesn’t hesitate to comply; he rapidly transfers himself to the other bed, then moves close to the hunter without further invitation.  Sam slides an arm around his shoulders and tugs him up against his side..

“You’ve been wanting to say something for like five minutes.”

“Yes,” Gadreel admits.

“What?”

“Just… are you angry with me?” 

Sam sighs quietly, then pulls him closer, resting his lips against his brow, “No… it _was_ the right choice."

Gadreel nods minutely, "And that's okay?"

"Yeah.  I mean, we got what we came for - Mrs. Tran is safe and we know a bit more about what Abaddon's up to."

Gadreel presses a grateful kiss to his shoulder, feeling his warm skin through his thin suit coat.  He is aware of the pressure of his own teeth behind his lips and the firm muscles beneath the layers of fabric.  He realizes that he hasn't taken off his own coat.

"You actually did really well today," Sam admits quietly, lifting his hand to smooth Gadreel's soft hair.  He notes that it's getting long and resolves to pull out the clippers when they get home.  Dean could probably also use a touch up.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah... Look, I'm sorry I was a dick about you coming.  I'm glad you were there."

Gadreel nods slowly, "Thank you for letting me come."

Sam sighs.  That's not the same as his boyfriend telling him that he forgave him or even that it's okay.  Even Dean was normally good about giving him an absolving "that's okay" or "it's cool man." 

"Yeah, of course.  It's not that I don't want you there, I just worry that's something's gonna happen and you're gonna get killed or something.  I've already done the living without you thing and it pretty much sucked."

Gadreel nods, sliding his hand down Sam's forearm so that he can curl his fingers between his.

"I'll do my best not to die, beloved, it isn't as though I want to."

"I just... I dunno.  I find myself thinking about it a lot," Sam confesses quietly.

"You've lost a lot of people," the blond concedes.  

Gadreel sighs, then rolls their bodies slightly so that he is lying atop the hunter.  He wants the contact and likes how gravity conforms his body to subtle curves and angles of Sam's ribs and hips, naturally erasing the gaps between them.  

Sam, however, is struck again by how different it is to lie this way with the other man.  He and Jess, and even he and Amelia, had curled up this way on the sofa to watch television; women always felt soft and small compared to him, their curvy bodies had fit so differently against his.  Gadreel is almost the same size, similar in weight, and built solid. Lying beneath him felt like wearing shield, rather than cradling something he needed to protect; More than a difference in gender, he feels a tangible difference in the power dynamic.  Gadreel expects a certain equity that Sam is still struggling to give him, the opportunity to protect as well as to be protected.  

Lying here now, their hearts beating solidly against their matched ribs, Sam finally feels like he can take a full breath. _I can't lose you._

"You're going to roast me," he comments, "You're still wearing your coat."

Gadreel starts to sit up, but the hunter drags him back down and holds him close.  The blond stiffens for a moment, then relaxes, his weight settling on Sam like a heavy blanket.

"Sorry," he murmurs.

"It's fine," Sam replies, his hands moving restlessly over his lower back.  The texture of his coat is coarse and dry against his fingers but his heat within is grounding. "But y'know, I need a shower.  I'm pretty sweaty and nasty.  So how bout I do that and you get settled in, then we can watch a movie or something."

Gadreel nods, but doesn't move till Sam nudges him off.

"Can I come?"

The request isn't hugely unusual; the blond occasionally sits on the counter and chats with him while he showers, politely turning his eyes away in those vulnerable moments of undress.  It was a bit strange the first time, when Gadreel had just walked in while he was soaping up his hair and started talking.  Strange but surprisingly natural.  When he’d told Dean about it, his brother had made a face and told him “TMI, man” in a way that made him certain that Cas had done exactly the same thing to him.  Probably more than once.

"Yeah, sure," Sam replies, sitting up.

He watches as Gadreel pulls off his coat and neatly tosses it over the back of a chair.  He is surprised again by how good the blond looks in a suit, even a cheap suit.  Forcing himself to look away, he walks into the surprisingly large bathroom.

It's big but empty - the sink is just a standard wall mount with no counter, the light and the seventies color scheme make everything look dingy despite that it is clean and well-maintained.  He pulls the shower curtain with the rattle of metal rings, then leans in and turns on the water, unconsciously checking and approving the water pressure.  He strips out of his suit as though he is removing armor and drapes the pieces carefully over the towel rods.  The suit will need to be dry cleaned after the scuffle, possibly even mended or replaced, but it's habit to hang it up.

He turns to find the former angel behind him, calming undressing in the doorway.  His lover is politely looking toward the light fixture as he unbuttons his shirt, but Sam stares as he wonders exactly what he agreed to.  This is new and different; it is Gadreel's inoffensive way of trying to be close to him.  

As he looks over his long, muscular legs and taut abdomen, he realizes he's never really looked at Gadreel completely naked before.  He's attractive, well put together, but even as he pulls off his black briefs, Sam doesn't feel a stirring of lust for his body.  Appreciation and familiarity, but not arousal.  He feels some relief when he realizes that Gadreel isn't aroused either; judging by the soft, heavy weight of his prick, he has no ulterior motives in joining him.

The former angel meets his eyes and nods to the shower to indicate that he should get in.  His confidence is surprising.  Sam shucks his underwear self-consciously then steps over the lip of the tub.

Gadreel follows him in and for a moment they just stand under the water.  The blond takes most of the water until he reaches over and turns them both so that they are evenly pelted down one side by the forceful spray.

After a moment, he reaches for the little cardboard box on the soap dish, from which he liberates a small, oval-shaped bar.  He slips it between his wet hands several times to slick the surface, then smoothly slides it over Sam's chest and upper arms.

The touch halts every _Don't drop the soap_ joke that had been racing through Sam's head.  He relaxes immediately, surprised to realize just how tense he'd been in the face of unknown expectations.  He knows the angel - _his_ angel - and he knows that he respects limits; he sighs comfortably, letting the blond care for him and clean the sweat, dirt, and blood from his damp skin.

"Do you think Dean will forgive me for today?"

"Yeah, he's already mellowed... just... next time don't just act when things are still being discussed, okay?  It wasn't desperate, no one was in danger at that moment.  There was no need to just take things into your own hands."

"I'm sorry."

"S'okay.  There'll be other times when split-second decisions are needed."

"Okay."

Gadreel's fingers are light and reverent, surprisingly deft as they move over the planes of muscle and bone to catalog new bruises, cuts, and scrapes.  Sam takes a hissing breath as they find a stinging cut on his wrist.  

"Sorry," Gadreel murmurs, hastening to rinse the soap from the shallow wound.

"S'okay," Sam assures him again, briefly sliding his fingers between the blond's soap-slicked ones.

He squeezes his hand before releasing it to resume his self-appointed task.  His fingers move lower, over his chest and hip bones,  modestly skirting his groin and backside as he moves to his upper thighs. Sam is surprised to find himself wanting the skipped touch - the gentle avoidance is keenly felt, made the situation almost more awkward than if he would have overstepped his boundaries.

Gadreel's fingers skate smoothly back around and over his lower back, effortlessly relieving the muscle tension through quick, careful applications of pressure.  He moves slightly closer to press a kiss to the clean, smooth swell of his shoulder without speaking.  

Sam sighs comfortably, unthinkingly sliding his arms around him to pull their wet bodies close together.  He leans down and kisses him lingeringly on the mouth. Bumping the pointed tip of his nose against his affectionately, catlike, he kisses the corner of his mouth before kissing him firmly and sliding his tongue into his mouth.  

He loves Gadreel, the way he's never loved anyone before him.  He loves everything that he is.  He loves this sturdy, muscular body in his arms.

He kisses him slowly, wanting to express without words the depth of his feeling.  Despite that he's hardly inexperienced, the execution is clumsy; there is too much to say with just lips and tongues.  Still, he kisses him until they're both panting for breath, and when Gadreel shifts closer to him he presses him back against the cool, slick shower wall. Gadreel's quiet moan surprises him; it heats his blood the way that the sight of his naked body hadn't.  He rocks his hips against his, sliding their wet cocks against each other as he hungrily kisses his open mouth.

It feels good, satisfying, to share this moment.  The slight difference in height gives variety to their movement, making Sam's breath catch each time the head of his lover's prick catches against his frenulum.  He knows exactly what he’s doing, and even as he eagerly ruts against him he reminds himself that they’re moving too fast.  _Don’t rush things._   He doesn’t want to stop; if anything, in this moment he wants more.  More kisses, more contact.  His hands on Gadreel’s hips, thighs, chest.  Gadreel moves with him, the roll of his hips in counterpoint to his own.

Sam comes first with a short, quiet cry.  He feels the slide of their cocks slicked by the addition of his come as he pumps his stuttering hips against Gadreel's until the shorter man comes as well, his gasp muffled against his shoulder.

They slump against the wall, holding tightly to one another still. As he comes down off of the high, Sam feels a rise of anxiety and almost nausea; _Too much, just too much_.  He wasn't ready for this, might never be ready for this.

Gadreel finally kisses him slowly, rubbing his arm soothingly.  The hunter relaxes slightly as he straightens to pulls away, the hot water rinsing down their bodies again.

His lover's fingers are on him again, this time moving freely over the places he'd avoided before and rinsing away the evidence of what they'd done.  Sam's body is oversensitized and the touch makes him shiver and his hips jerk under his hands.

Sam lathers his hair with his own bottle of shampoo, his eyes closed.  Gadreel mimics his movements as he washes his own hair, then gives his long limbs a much more cursory scrub-down.

When they are dry and curled up on one of the beds, the television quietly playing the local news, Gadreel finally says, "I'm sorry.  That wasn't why I followed you into the shower."

Sam sighs, the buzz in his chest reawakening briefly, "No ‘sorry.’  I started it... I _liked_ it."

That all they say on the subject, even though Gadreel has a lot of other questions that he wants to ask and things that he wants to say about it.  He liked it, he hopes Sam liked it too.  He had felt close to him as they leaned heavily against each other, spent and still pleasure-flushed.  He hopes that Sam felt the same way.  He hopes that he wasn’t disgusted or scared, or that he shouldn’t have said ‘no’ for both of them when Sam pushed him back against the wall.  He didn’t think he’d ever want to say no.

At the moment, his insecurities are at war with his post-orgasmic, rose-tinted view of the world.  Happiness, for once, wins out.  He’s warm and tired, pressed up against Sam’s side as they both half-watch the news, talking quietly about the day.  Talking is something they do well, though sometimes not about the subjects that need discussion.  
He drowses against the hunter’s shoulder until Sam shifts to reach for his tablet.  At the movement, he lifts his head lazily to press several adoring kisses to the underside of his chin.  The hunter smiles and tips his jaw down to catch a kiss on the mouth, then lingers close to trade a few stolen kisses back and forth.  

Gadreel had survived his first hunt and that, coupled with the solid weight of the man himself in his arms, makes Sam feel startlingly optimistic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A decent-length section! ;) And a day early! I'm really going to try to get back into updating this series more than once a week.
> 
> I'm trying to work through the SPN mythology and timeline... and it's hard trying to make it work. My general timeline is that Lucifer gatecrashed Eden, and he and Gadreel were tossed into simple cages. Someone let Lucifer out a few hundred years later and he had a grand old time with his evil knights of Hell, then he was imprisoned again until season 4 when Sam killed Lillith. Gadreel was imprisoned the entire time.
> 
> At this point in the series, they haven't actually explained what the Knights of Hell are, or how they're different from normal demons... so the whole angel + demon thing is just something that I came up with. I'm pretty sure that the show will take it in a different direction, but oh well. This is the road I'm taking and I don't intend to edit or update with canon. ;)
> 
> I really struggled with whether or not to let Linda keep her demon - on one hand, I feel like leaving her out and about would have allowed me a bit more flexibility later. However, I just couldn't see all 4 of them just deciding to let her ride off into the sunset with demonic powers. 
> 
> Anyway, one more chapter of this one and then it's on to the next story. :)


	5. Chapter 5

With two exceptions, Castiel had not enjoyed human sleep.  Perhaps it had been the death-like absence of sensation or the forced vulnerability, or perhaps it had simply been a disdain for his own bodily needs.  It's possible that he could have enjoyed it if he had been warm, comfortable, or secure, and if he hadn't been so lonely.

The first time that he had enjoyed sleep was when he'd fallen asleep, exhausted, in Dean's arms on his first night in the bunker.  His hunter had shown him the different intensity of a human body, how dirty and thorough and consuming pleasure was without angelic grace.  He remembers understanding more about humanity than ever before, he remembers how close they felt even though they were desperate and pornographic.  He remembers telling Dean that he could stay like this and live out a human life with him.  He remembers that falling asleep with his face pressed into Dean's shoulder had felt the way water did when he was thirsty, like it was something he didn't need to question.

It was only a few hours, then Dean told him to leave.  He understands why now, but he still wonders if it would have been different, if Dean would have fought harder to keep him if he had never slept with that Reaper. 

The thought of the Reaper still troubles him on several levels, though he hasn't spoken to anyone about it.

The second time he enjoyed sleep had also been spent with Dean, when they'd seen each other again after a date-that-wasn't and a near miss with an executing angel.  
When Castiel had deferred questions about his apartment, Dean had realized that he didn't have one.  An offhanded comment cemented that there was no extended stay hotel or hostel either, and that was when Dean had decided to keep him for the night.

They didn't have sex.  

Castiel was tired and Dean was Dean.  He started out off-handed apologetic and moved on to being too close, too nostalgic, and the former angel was still too raw to tolerate it.  Dean was offended, as though he had done nothing wrong and was being brushed off out of spite.  _You moved on quick, pity your date didn't work out._ He'd been mocking and Cas had almost wanted to hit him, to see how his mortal knuckles would split on Dean's beautiful mouth.

Instead he had shut the conversation down with a pointed look and a well-placed comment.  _You sent me away, Dean.  Forgive me for not falling flat on my back with my legs apart._

It always surprised Dean when he came out with something coarse or biting, as though he forgot that he was ageless and jaded from lifetimes of battle.  As though he was innocent.

The comment quieted him, and the archangel knows now that it was because there was nothing that Dean could have said.  He didn't apologize, but he dropped his gaze to the side in a way that hurt Castiel's human heart and took the pleasure out of the sting. 

Then he changed the subject.  They talked about everything else, from Kevin to Crowley to a trip to a childhood home.  That was the night that Castiel realized that he actually hated John Winchester, and the force and impotence of the emotion had made him want to scream.

They hadn't wanted to sleep because they knew that the morning would bring another separation; Dean's body language and the way that he gradually moved closer seemed to indicate that it would be a long time before they saw each other again.  Castiel remembers being preemptively sad and allowing Dean liberties, letting the hunter put his arms around him while they talked on the bed, letting him kiss his hair first, then his cheeks and mouth as the hours crept on.  

Dean talked about everything except his secrets. Castiel had known even then that he had them; Dean was terrible at secrets. It had been the first time in a long time that the hunter had had a confidante and it seemed as though he couldn't stop talking, couldn't stop stroking the angel's arms and back, couldn't stop kissing him.  He'd fallen asleep as he listened to Dean talk about a hunt.  He hadn't wanted to sleep then, but he was warm and comfortable.  More importantly, he wasn't alone.  Solitary time as an angel hadn't bothered him, but in his time as a mortal man he had learned to dread the lonely time between when he laid his tired body down and when his active, recriminating mind released him to sleep.

He didn't sleep long, but he woke to find Dean wrapped around him, asleep as well.  Their pool of warmth in middle of the cheap mattress was private and safe.  Lying there, he doubted that he had the strength to let the hunter go to face another day of banal human routine alone.  Before Dean had showed up at the convenience store, he'd relegated himself to this life and had started to look for some satisfaction in it; pressed close to his hunter, who had told him repeatedly the day before that he was "better" than this while offering no alternatives, he could only see a lonely, unsatisfying life stretching before him.  His mind was full of rhetoric and pleas that he could have tried when his sometimes-lover woke.

But an hour later, already late for the start of his shift, Cas climbed out of the car and Dean told him that he was proud of him.  Then he left him behind again with a freshly re-broken heart and his unwanted new life.

Now, Castiel stays with him as he sleeps even though he can't sleep himself.  He is pressed up against him, his cheek resting against Dean's shoulder and his unseen wings draped loosely over him.   He almost wishes for the surrender of sleep, but he is content simply watching over Dean and guarding against nightmares.

Tonight he is also watching over the fierce, exhausted woman in the opposite bed.  He is silently attuned to her breathing, the gentle rise and fall of her narrow chest in the dark.  He respects the privacy of her dreams, but he is carefully to her pulse to wake her from nightmares if needed.  

He can feel that the sunrise is still a few hours off, but Mrs. Tran stirs beneath the blankets.  She is still, just looking at the ceiling for several moments as she attempts to place herself. A few minutes later, she quietly pushes the blankets aside and attempts to sit up without letting the mattress creak; it's a skill she first learned living home with older siblings and perfected as a young mother.  The only sound is the slide of the stiff duvet folding back on itself, then the near-silent contact of her feet with the carpeted floor.

The archangel doesn't move; he isn't ashamed of his physical proximity to the sleeping hunter and he isn't certain yet what their guest is doing.   He makes no sound as he listens to her pulling on her shoes and Dean's heavy coat.  Linda makes her way to the door and quietly loosens the deadbolt and slowly, stealthily turns the knob.

He greets her outside, where she jumps and puts a hand to her mouth to hold in a yelp of surprise.

"Where are you going?"

"Go away," she says gruffly, struggling to keep her voice down.  Even a harsh whisper seems loud at 4am when the only other sounds are the quiet buzz of an old light fixture and occasional, distant traffic.

"Mrs. Tran, I cannot permit you to leave alone.  It is very cold and you have no money or means of transportation."

She looks at him sharply, knowing the logic of what he's telling her.  There is a certain desperation in her dark eyes as she regards him balefully, "Why do you care about me now?  You never cared before."

"I don't know why you've made that assumption."

"I called for you, Castiel.  I knew your name and I _prayed_ to you."

He sighs tiredly, "I couldn't hear you."

"I know you could! I know that the angels falling didn't take away their powers.  I'm not an idiot."

Looking at her, he knows she isn't.  She is one of the smartest women he's met, certainly one of the strongest.  He looks at her steadily, "It wasn't the same for me - I fell first because my grace was stolen to complete the spell; I was human."

She looks slightly skeptical, and he presses on to add, "I am sorry to have failed to answer your call, but that has no bearing on your leaving right now."  
She shoves her already-cold hands into the pockets of Dean's oversized coat; she looks as though she is drowning in the thick, broad-shouldered garment, but there is nothing weak or small in her expression.

"I don't want to go."

"Why?  Don't you want to see your son?"

"Of course I do," she says, looking away.  When Castiel doesn't say anything else, she adds, "I just can't face him."

"Why not?"

"Castiel, I did things," she says sharply, shivering harshly in the crisp cold.

"The demon possessing you did those things; they aren't your fault."

" _I_ did things.  I had to maintain the appearance of being a demon..."

The angel looks at her for a moment, assessing that and slotting it into its proper place on the moral hierarchy.  With his brow furrowed, he asks quietly, "What kinds of things?"

"I killed two angels," Linda replies quietly.

Castiel nods silently, wondering if it had been anyone he cared for.  They were all his brothers, but there were different relationships between siblings like in any family.  He wonders how they were killed, and if the demons and Mrs. Tran made them suffer.  Even so, he doesn't ask.  Finally, he asks, "Did you hurt any humans?"

She shakes her head, "No... we didn't meet many, and I always..."

Linda trails off, remembering the slim handful of times that they'd run into other humans.  If they were anywhere near civilization, they let them go; there was no need to draw undue attention to themselves, be it from angels, opposing demons, or hunters.  However, there had been a few cases, out in remote areas like where they were now, when her entourage had indulged in their bloodlust. She always hesitated just long enough that the other demons got to them first; they were a savage, no frills lot, so it was always quick and visceral.  In her mind, she can see the light going out of their eyes as their throats were ripped open, and she can remember the smell when her companions had torn the bodies apart post-mortem and played with their insides.

"I didn't help them either," she finally finishes.

Castiel nods, then says quietly, "Terrible things happen in times of war, Mrs. Tran.  These things are not your fault... And there is a different morality involved with killing angels.  Regardless of whether you had control of your body, it was not your choice."

Linda shakes her head forcefully, "I can't-"

"Your son doesn't care about your killing angels," he says matter-of-factly, "He will understand why you couldn't save the humans as well.  While you have been away, Kevin has changed."

She looks at him untrustingly, "What happened?"

When he meets her eyes, he knows that he can't deflect the question and that lying is pointless.  She was always forcefully intelligent and fiercely stubborn and those traits had only intensified.  She had survived and overcome demonic possession; staring down an archangel was comparatively nothing.

"He was killed," he continues over her sound of protestation, "And traversed heaven, killed an archangel, met God, and returned to Earth."

Linda stares at him silently, not knowing where to begin to dissect that blunt narrative.  She holds her breath to maintain her silence as a dozen emotions roll violently through her.  Castiel simply waits, recalling what human emotion had felt like as he watches her.  He comprehends that depth of pain and helplessness now, even if he is no longer capable of feeling it the same way.  He remembers what it feels like to have many emotions concurrently, and how the mental turbulence can have an actual physical effect on the body, how the chest tightens and the vision narrows.  

When she exhales, he says quietly, "Your son needs you."

Her shoulders slump visibly, "This was never what I wanted for him."

 _Or any of us_ , she thinks quietly.  All she'd ever wanted was to raise her son with the man she loved.  That hadn't worked out, but she'd accepted that; it had taken time, but life had gone on without Michael Tran. They'd made a new picture of their ideal life and that had been broken as well with the revelation that Kevin was a prophet.  Still, even after they had tried to rebuild.  The last break from their reimagined life was too much to overcome easily; she doesn't know where to start again.

"This isn't what anyone wanted," Castiel points out in a backwards effort at being comforting.

Her eyebrows lift judgmentally and the angel knows that he has said the wrong thing.  He reaches over and pats her shoulder awkwardly, suggesting, "Come back inside.  You're cold."

"I want to go to the vending machines.  I'm hungry," she replies turning away from him and walking in the direction of the hotel office.  Her shoulders are drawn up against the cold as she walks carefully over the icy sidewalk.  

"Then will you come back in?"

"Yes."

Castiel nods, moving to walk beside her.  Unseen, he spreads a broad wing to shield her from the sting of the wind.  She feels the difference but doesn't know why; he doesn't tell her because he was taught that kindness was not to be given in expectation of gratitude.

"Thank you," he tells her instead when they walk in to a small, enclosed room with two vending machines, a coin laundry machine, and an assortment of pamphlets in an old, well-maintained rack..

She looks at him in slight surprise, then turns her attention to the brightly lit, lightly frosted plexiglass front of the vending machine.  Her fingers shamelessly pick through the contents of Dean's coat pockets, easily slipping past IDs, paperclips, and lighters to pick out quarters and dimes.

"You seem different now," she comments.

"I am an archangel now, and I was human before."

"Chatty as ever though, I see," she said a, feeding four quarters to the machine and punching the button for a packet of animal crackers.

"Yes," he replies, still more accustomed to being spoken at than comfortably conversing with humans.  He was eloquent and talkative in Enochian, but the language barrier - or more accurately, the human intelligence barrier - was something he still hadn't really learned to navigate.

"Mm," she acknowledges, looking up at him briefly.  She looks away as she chooses a bottle of Coke from the larger, brighter machine.

"You should be proud of Kevin," Cas says, watching as his companion turns and hops up to perch on the edge of the dryer.

"I always have been," she replies casually, tearing open the animal crackers.  She is trying to remember the last time that she ate.

"He returned my stolen grace to me.  And for that I am deeply indebted to him."

Linda nods, crunching thoughtfully on one of the hard little biscuits, "So, how was your grace stolen to begin with?"

"I made a mistake trusting someone who used me," Castiel replies, shrugging slightly, "I thought that I would be helping... But I was wrong."

"From what I've heard, that seems to be a common problem for you," she says casually, "You're very trusting."

"Yes."

She isn't sure how to read his tone - it seems like he is affirming a fact than reacting to it.  While she hadn't meant to make him feel guilty or gullible, she's a bit surprised that he doesn't seem to have any emotional response to what she'd said.

"Doesn't that bother you?"

He shakes his head slightly, "No."

"So you're okay with making the same mistake over and over?" 

He turns and looks at her critically for a moment and she notices for the first time that his eyes have changed since she last knew him.  They're brighter and less human, almost more like blue glass than human irises.  

"I have become more critical, and I have learned to question others' motivations more critically... but I hope to always possess the ability to trust."

 _If I ever really learned from my mistakes_ , Dean and I would be long over, he thinks wryly, remembering in an instant all of the times that Dean had lied to him and he had chosen to trust him again.  All of the times they'd been on the outs and Dean had lured him back by telling him that it would be different, and he'd eagerly, optimistically believed him. 

Even now things were only half-different, but the change was enough for him to keep a certain optimistic faith.

And now, most of his brothers were obedient, gracious creatures in heaven; it was only two harsh factions on earth that were problematic. 

Trust is valuable.

Linda, unaware of his mental wandering, uncaps her soda and takes a long, bubble-burning drink.  The sugar feels good; she can almost feel her body rejoicing at the caloric intake. "That's very hopeful," she says finally.

"Despair is actually a sin."

Linda is quiet as she neatly eats, tapping her dangling, booted heel back against the metal door of the dryer.  The silence is thoughtful but companionable, though Castiel has no concept of what she could be thinking.  When she speaks , her voice is weary, "I don't know how to fix what I did.  I can't take any of it back, and I can't change that I wasn't there to protect Kevin."

"No, it can't be changed... all you can do is move forward and live your life as-"

"I was a good person," she interrupts, "Going back to my old life seems like a reward, not a penance."

Castiel sighs quietly.  There is no way to persuade someone so strong that she was a victim; she is far too disciplined to simply turn away blame. She'll never forget. She continues, "I can't bring the angels back, or the people who those demons killed.  What if they had families?"

"Linda... the only easy peace I can offer you is to remove your memories of the past few-"

"What?"she demands as though shocked that he would even think that it was an acceptable solution, "I don't deserve to forget.  That's the opposite of what I need."

The angel wonders if all humans are so self-damning, or if it was just those who associate with the Winchesters.  He blinks at her slowly, trying to formulate a response that isn't rude or illogical by human standards.

"Then seek for-"

He's interrupted by his phone ringing in his pocket.  He glances down with a long-suffering look, then fishes it out of his long coat.  It's an archaic, obsolete flip-open model, but he hardly uses it anyway.  Dean referred to it as a burner once, though the angel still has no idea what that means; he just dutifully allows Dean to reload it with minutes from a credit card every few months.

He caresses the smooth, flimsy gray plastic with his thumb, then flips it open to answer, "What."

"Geez Cas, a hello'd be nice."

"Hello."

"Yeah, hi.  Where are you?  Is Linda with you, she's not here and my coat's gone."

"Yes, we went to the vending machine."

"Oh."

"Why are you awake?  It's very early."

"Woke up when you left," Dean answers, his gruff voice turned to complete gravel with weariness, "Didn't think anything of it until I realized Linda was gone too.  You coming back?"

Cas looks at the woman opposite him, uncertain if she can hear Dean's side of the conversation or just his.  Linda watches him critically as she sips her soda, as if daring him to pull her back before she was ready.

"Yes, after she's eaten."

On the other end of the line, Dean groans tiredly, "Tell her not to eat that crap.  It's like almost 5, I'll get up and take her for a real breakfast with eggs and stuff."

The angel nods even though Dean can't see him, "All right."

"Grab my leather jacket outta the trunk on your way back, okay?" Dean says, then hangs up without saying goodbye.  He has a tendency to treat cell phones like walkie-talkies, and he rarely concludes a conversation with a proper closing as a result.

He slips his phone into his pocket again, then resumes his earlier thread of conversation, "Seek forgiveness from Kevin, as he is the one who matters the most to you.  I freely forgive you for killing my brothers; it is my right to do so, as their closest kin."

She pulls out a broken cookie and offers it to him.  Castiel takes it and tries to figure out which animal it had been; it's the front end at least.  He looks back to her, holding it in his palm for a moment before slipping it into his pocket as though it's something important. She just watches.  Despite her time with demons, she still sometimes has a hard time recognizing angels as inhuman.  Actions like this still seem crazy rather than alien, but they remind her that Castiel isn't just an awkward, middle-aged man.

"You look older," she comments, changing the subject rather than accepting his forgiveness.

"Than what?"

"Before," she says, crumpling up the bag and casting about for a garbage bin.

The archangel is a bit surprised by that, as vessels cease to age once they are inhabited.  He looks down at his hands thoughtfully, then says, "It is no doubt the result of my time as as mortal man... and in the time immediately following, I suffered a wasting illness.  Perhaps it damaged my vessel as well."

It's not a subject that he wishes to discuss, though, as none of the associated memories are pleasant.  He brushes off the unwelcome thoughts and says, "Let's go back.  Dean wants to take you out for breakfast."

Linda slides off the edge of the dryer and lands lightly on her feet, "What are you and Dean?"

"He is a man and I am an archangel."

She almost laughs, "I meant more... What are you to each other?"

"Much the same," Castiel replies, intentionally misunderstanding the question.  

He knows the Dean's rules, even if he gently objects to them.  He won't confess his (literally)  undying love for his hunter to anyone, much less someone he hardly knows.  
She sighs, though, smiling slightly as she buttons the coat again, "All right, Castiel, let's go back."

 

\---------------------------

  
Alison dozes intermittently in the passenger seat of the car a Arakiel has stolen.  When she’s awake, she stares disinterestedly out the window and wonders if it's possible to trick the angel into keeping her as a vessel, or if there is some way to make her body stronger to be a better angel suit.  She doesn't have any ideas for either, so she just continues to watch the countryside roll by.

“Do you really think that this Malachi will take you?” she asks groggily, looking over at the dark-skinned angel in the driver’s seat.  She likes looking at him; angel or not, his features are soft and pleasing, beautifully symmetrical and well-balanced.  

She wonders who he was when he wasn’t Arakiel, but knows that it doesn’t actually matter; they won’t meet as themselves as long as the angel is in their lives. Knowing that doesn’t really bother her, though she is naturally curious about who will make up their angelic threesome.

“He’s the most likely.  He has always had a tendency toward disobedience prior to the fall, but he lacked the conviction to openly oppose the heavenly host,” he says mildly, looking away from the road in favor of looking at her for a moment.  His eyes are the color of the bottom of a white teacup viewed through an inch of Earl Grey.

“So what changed?”

“Opportunity,” he said simply, “When heaven was in chaos and there was a chance to take charge, he finally acted.  I knew him before my imprisonment and from what I’ve heard, he hasn’t  changed… so where there’s opportunity for him, there’s opportunity for me.”

Alison nods thoughtfully, “I… guess so.  Why do you need to join up with anyone, though?  I mean, you’re powerful, right?

Arakiel is quiet, his eyes distant even as he easily keep the little Honda between the painted lines on the road.

"I would be unwelcome in heaven,” he finally replies.

“You have to give me more than that.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“You want to.  I can tell you’re dying to tell me why,” she says playfully, trying to draw the angel out into a more involved conversation.  She is finding that it is more interesting to be Arakiel than to spend time with him.  It is slightly disappointing, as she would have preferred to be the vessel for a wildly interesting angel, but it doesn’t really matter either.

He glances over at her again, smiling slightly.  

“I’m really not.”

She makes a frustrated noise, then sighs, “Do you just not like talking?  Or is it talking to me?”

“It’s not…” the angel says in surprise.  He wonders why she is so eager to talk to him, but he realizes that it is at least in part due to sheer boredom; they’ve been on the road for several hours already and they’d barely spoken.  “I like to talk, I’m just unused to it.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the company of other angels, and human company is new to me entirely.  I don’t even know what humans are interested in or what they talk about… I don’t know what topics your mind is able to understand, or what you would think is funny or interesting.“

Alison smiles a little; Arakiel’s delivery is conversational, even if his way of speaking is a bit more formal than she’s used to.  She wishes she knew more about him; she’s aware that he knows everything about her from taking over her mind and body, but the passage of information had only gone one way.  She had the faintest glimpses of the creature that had been inside of her, but it wasn’t anything that had any meaning or human relevance.  None of the images had been things she could recognize, and the feelings and thoughts, though only perceived briefly, were more complex than she could hold on to. 

“Why don’t you just tell me something about you?  Like a story or… I don’t know.  Things you like.  Keep it casual, y’know, but like, just try talking to me.”

“You have to understand that the differences in our cognitive abilities make conversation uneven.  Imagine if you were asked to converse with a sparrow, speaking sparrow.”

“Now you’re just being rude,” Alison laughs, rolling her eyes.

“It’s not my intent… I’m just trying to explain both the differences in our intelligence and the inadequacies of human language,” he pauses, reconsidering that statement as well as the one that had come before it.  He smiles a little sheepishly, then agrees, “Though you’re right, it is a bit rude, even if it’s true.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Ask me a question,” he offered, “I’ll try to chirp at you.”

 

\--------------------------------------

  
The drive back to Kansas is quiet.  With a solid night’s sleep, the mood of the party has improved dramatically; though no apologies or explanations have been awarded to anyone, the previous day’s transgressions seem to have been forgotten.  Dean and Castiel have reset to neutral, and Gadreel and Sam are lazily holding hands in the back seat.    
Linda is quiet for the first two hours, tucked up against the door so that she can look out the window.  After a time, she rouses herself from her deep contemplation of everything on the road ahead and joins in their conversation.  It’s all surprisingly light and casual, considering the light sprains and pulls muscles that the boys were suffering this morning and the pendulous weight of impending doom.  

Maybe it was that the world was always in danger of imminent destruction, so apocalyptic peril has started to lose its urgency.  With an open box of locally procured donuts open in the middle of the front seat as they played word games and avoided talking about demons, the end of the humankind just doesn’t seem very important.

Just outside of Lebanon, Castiel reaches over and lightly rests his hand on Dean’s thigh.  The movement is subtle enough that the shift of his shoulder isn’t noticeable from the back seat.  Dean jumps slightly, his green eyes flicking over to his lover’s still profile.  He looks as though he might say something, but forces himself to relax as he briefly touches Cas’ hand before returning it to the wheel.

The archangel smiles, counting it as a small victory, but doesn’t pull his hand away.

When they pull into the parking garage at the bunker, Linda feels a resurgence of panic.  She closes her eyes, pressing her lips together and trying to control her quickening breathing.   Gadreel glances over at her without understanding her sudden agitation, but when she climbs out of the back seat Castiel rests a bracing hand on her shoulder.  It doesn’t reassure her, but she appreciates the gesture.

She finds her thoughts wandering to simpler times.  She remembers a two year old Kevin asleep on his father’s chest while the two watched cartoons; she’d come home and Michael had been straining to reach the remote control, wanting to turn off the television but not wanting to wake the baby.  She had a picture somewhere, back from when she’d still only had a film camera.  It had been so easy then, when the biggest worry was money.

She still misses her husband, who had been taken much too young and left a hole in their lives.  She wishes she could appeal to him now to ask for strength in facing her son after everything that had happened, from her abduction to her apparent abandonment.  She knows that you can’t pray to people, though, and she doesn’t pray anymore anyway.

Linda is barely aware of the Winchesters laughing and joking as they lead her into the bunker.  She dimly registers Dean saying that she was going to be a Winchester too, and she hears Castiel makes some non-sequitur remark in response. Her only focus is on the light at the end of the hallway.

“Hey Kev!” she hears Dean call, “Guess who’s here for you?”

There’s the sound of a chair being pushed back from a table and then bare feet on a wood floor.  She sees Kevin in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from within.

She takes a deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like the Tran reunion was too personal to actually write... so I'll just summarize it in the next episode. 
> 
> My headcanon is that Dean and Cas slept together after the April thing, and that Cas got the wrong idea about why Dean kicked him out afterwards. The timing of admitting he'd slept with April and then getting told to leave was just too close, and until The Opposite of Fall, he thought Dean had sent him away because he was mad at him over April. He has a lot of April-related issues and there are some aspects that he is still confused about... but he doesn't really have anyone that he can talk to about it. 
> 
> I also think that Dean and Cas spent the night together in 9-6, but didn't sleep together. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, but I wanted to get the first section of the next episode up at the same time. :) So this week I'm posting almost 10,000 words!


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